LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

A  Drama  in  Four  Acts 


AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

Revised  1916  by  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

Copyright,  1916,  by  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 

CAUTION.— All  persons  are  hereby  warned  that  "THE 
WITCHING  HOUB,"  being  fully  protected  under 
the  copyright  laws  of  the  United  States,  is  subject  to 
royalty,  and  anyone  presenting  the  play  without  the 
consent  of  the  owners  or  their  authorized  agents  will 
be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Application 
for  amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  SAMUEL 
FRENCH,  28-30  West  33th  Street,  New  York.  Applica 
tion  for  the  professional  acting  rights  must  be  made  to 
the  AMERICAN  PLAY  COMPANY,  33  West  42nd  Street, 
New  York. 


NEW  YORK 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30  WEST  38TH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH.  L*d. 

C  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


L: 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALLFORJNIA 
DAVIS 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this 
book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first  having 
been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  "*ght  or  license 
to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play  publicly  or 
in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance  of  it  may  be  given  except 
by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York. 

SECTION  28— That  any  person  who  wilfully  or  for  profit 
shall  infringe  any  copyright  secured  by  this  act,  or  who  shall 
knowingly  and  wilfully  aid  or  abet  such  infringement  shall 
be  deemed  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction 
thereof  shall  be  punished  by  imprisonment  for  not  exceeding 
one  year,  or  by  a  fine  of  not  less  than  one  hundred  nor  more 
than  one  thousand  dollars,  or  both;  in  the  discretion  of  the 
court. 

Act  of  March  ^  1909, 


PREFACE. 


"  The  Witching  Hour  "  was  played  and  had  run 
its  full  consecutive  course  upon  the  stage,  and  had 
settled  into  the  occasional  presentation  by  local  stock 
companies  before  it  was  put  into  print;  and  when 
printed  it  was  given  to  the  reading  public  without 
author's  or  publisher's  comment.  It  is  only  with  this 
edition  by  Samuel  French  addressed  to  amateur 
players  and  students  that  a  preface  has  been  con 
sidered  desirable ;  and  even  here  its  pertinence  would 
not  be  evident  except  as  one  of  a  number  of  prefaces 
intended  collectively  to  set  forth  in  rather  haphazard 
fashion  some  illustrations  of  the  problems  that  come 
to  a  dramatist,  and  his  individual  manner  of  solving 
them.*  The  whole  enterprise  is  prompted  by  the  fact 
that  in  some  college  classes  some  plays  of  mine 
among  others,  are  discussed  educationally ;  it  may  be 
no  less  as  examples  of  what  to  avoid  than  as  models 
of  what,  in  part,  to  repeat ;  but  in  either  case  an 
author's  own  ideas  and  intentions  may  be  informing. 

In  a  discussion  of  this  play,  as  of  all  plays  of 
theme  rather  than  of  situation,  clearness  may  be 
attained  by  considering  subject  and  treatment 
separately ;  and  economy  of  attention  would  suggest 
considering  the  subject  first. 

Apparently  in  all  ages  there  have  been  an  appre 
hension  and  evidence  of  some  force  by  which  one 
mind  acted  upon  another  without  communication  by 
the  known  physical  senses.  This  force,  vaguely  felt 
and  undefined,  has  been  variously  designated  as 
magic,  imagination,  mesmerism,  witchcraft,  sorcery, 
voodooism,  clairvoyance,  charm,  enchantment  and 

*  In  Mizzoura ;  Mrs.  Leffingweil's  Boots  ;  Oliver  Goldsmith  ;  The 
Harvest  Moon;  The  Other  Girl. 


4  PREFACE. 

the  like ;  and  has  had  its  professors  and  practitioners 
of  varying  degrees  of  knowledge  and  proficiency 
from  scientist  to  fakir.  And  it  has  had  its  deniers 
and  its  denouncers. 

About  the  year  1882  F.  W.  H.  Meyers,  convinced 
of  the  existence  and  character  of  the  force  called  it 
"  telepathy  " ;  Oliver  Wendel  Holmes,  years  before, 
had  written  of  some  personal  telepathic  experiences 
and  coined  the  word  "  cerebricity  "  to  describe  the 
force;  and  Mark  Twain  afterwards  furnished  two 
serious  papers  to  recount  his  own  experiences  in 
telepathy.  Such  scientists  as  Professor  M.  F.  Bar 
rett,  Henry  Sidgwick,  Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  Sir  W. 
Crooks,  Dr.  Pierre  Janet,  Professors  Dessoir  and 
Flournoy  conducted  extended  series  of  experiments 
in  the  study  of  the  subject ;  Andrew  Lang  adapted 
the  French  phrase  telepathic  a  trois  to  describe  the 
transmission  to  a  first  person  through  a  second  one 
of  some  bit  of  knowledge  that  might  be  only  in  the 
possession  of  a  third  person. 

Dr.  Thomas  Hudson,  convinced  of  telepathy  and 
telepathic  a  trois  as  well,  wrote  a  treatise  explaining 
by  the  telepathic  hypothesis  all  alleged  spiritistic 
communication.  The  Society  of  Psychical  Research 
in  England,  and  the  associated  society  of  the  same 
name  in  America,  filled  volumes  with  the  records  of 
experiments  in  telepathy ;  and  the  principal  psycholo 
gists  of  the  world  treated  it  as  an  established  fact. 

This  cumulative  testimony  is  recalled  to  bolster 
my  own  interest  in  the  subject ;  and  in  order  that  I 
may  add  somewhat  of  my  own  observation ;  and  I  do 
so  because  successful  plays  are  seldom  written  upon 
themes  that  have  been  merely  intellectually  adopted : 
the  drama  is  dependent  upon  emotional  appeal  and 
even  the  thematic  side  of  a  play  to  be  effective  should 
be  founded  upon  a  real  belief. 

In  the  year  1888  I  was  the  publicity  man  for  the 
thought-reader,  Washington  Irving  Bishop;  and  had 


PREFACE.  5 

a  fairly  intimate  association  with  Bishop,  and  a  con 
siderable  knowledge  of  him.  Bishop  was  a  showman 
and  it  is  possible  that  some  of  his  work  had  in  it 
elements  of  fraud ;  but  the  fraud,  if  it  existed,  was 
never  discoverable  by  me,  nor,  to  my  knowledge, 
was  it  ever  finally  charged  by  an  investigator. 
Bishop's  program  consisted  of  the  usual  so-called 
thought  reader  exhibitions,  such  as  finding,  while 
blind  folded,  hidden  articles ;  playing  melodies  men 
tally  suggested  by  other  persons;  locating  some 
chosen  word  in  a  large  library  of  books;  driving 
blind-folded  a  team  of  horses  through  the  city 
streets,  etc.  The  public  is  familiar  with  these  ex 
hibitions  and  the  so-called  physical  and  muscle  read 
ing  explanations  of  them.  I  wish  to  report  in  detail 
only  one  performance  not  of  a  general  public  char 
acter  and  not  explicable  on  the  muscle-reading 
theory :  One  morning  in  the  city  of  Minneapolis,  in 
the  parlor  of  the  West  Hotel,  a  committee  of  fifty 
professional  men  was  in  session.  These  men,  in 
about  equal  numbers,  were  physicians,  lawyers  and 
clergymen.  They  had  been  invited  by  letters  ad 
dressed  by  me  from  public  lists  and  without  con 
ferences.  Nearly  all  of  them  knew  of  Bishop 
through  the  telegraphed  reports  of  his  work  in  New 
York,  recently  run  as  first-page  stories;  none  of 
them  knew  him  personally.  It  was  the  first  day 
of  Bishop's  first  visit  *o  the  city;  a  sub-committee 
of  five  had  gone  in  a  carriage  to  a  distant  point  in 
the  city  to  hide  an  article  which  Bishop  was  to  find : 
during  their  absence  he  had  one  of  the  remaining 
committeemen  get  a  map  of  the  city  and  this  was 
spread  out  and  pinned  to  the  wall.  When  the  sub 
committee  returned  they  were  asked  to  stand  behind 
him,  without  contact,  and  mentally  to  locate  on  the 
city  map  the  square  corresponding  to  the  place  to 
which  they  had  driven.  Bishop,  with  his  back  to 
them,  faced  the  map,  and  after  a  moment's  hesita- 


6  PREFACE. 

tion,  marked  the  spot  where  the  article  was  hidden 
and  where,  in  his  blindfold  drive  immediately  after 
wards,  he  found  it.  This  latter  performance  was 
followed  by  a  cataleptic  fit  lasting  several  hours ;  and 
the  doctors'  warning  that  an  attempted  repetition 
of  the  work  might  prove  fatal,  which,  a  few  weeks 
later,  was  the  case. 

Bishop's  own  explanation  of  his  ability  to  do  these 
things  was  that  he  did  them  under  auto-hypnosis. 

In  the  years  that  followed  his  death,  a  sustained 
interest  in  telepathy  led  me  to  read  all  that  I  could 
find  authoritatively  printed  on  the  subject  and  to 
make  or  to  see  such  experiments  as  were  afforded  by 
the  occasional  meeting  with  professionals  or  ama 
teurs  who  possessed  telepathic  sensibility  or  power. 
Some  of  these  experiments  were  with  persons  under 
external  hypnotic  control,  but  often  with  those  work 
ing  independently  there  was  noticeable  a  condition 
recalling  that  of  Bishop,  and  suggesting  a  measure 
of  self-induced  hypnosis.  From  this  fact,  the  ques 
tions  of  telepathy  and  hypnotism  came  to  be,  not 
necessarily,  but  permissibly  associated  in  my  mind 
and  therefore  concurrently  presented  when  the  play 
was  planned. 

There  is  a  maxim  in  the  theatre  that  no  material 
is  useful  for  a  play  until  it  has  been  used  as  subject- 
natter  for  all  other  literary  forms,  and  made  familiar 
to  the  public  through  poetry,  fiction,  lectures  and  re- 
pertorial  and  editorial  comment.  A  one-act  play  on 
the  subject  was  written  by  me  for  Mr.  Palmer  in 
1890,  when  he  wanted  a  short  piece  for  Agnes  Booth 
and  James  H.  Stoddart;  and  although  both  those 
veteran  artists  were  anxious  to  try  the  play,  Mr. 
Palmer  was  no  doubt  right  in  his  belief  that  the 
subject  was  too  foreign  to  the  thinking  of  the  gen 
eral  public. 

When  the  discussion  of  telepathy  by  both  scientists 
and  laymen  had  gone  on  for  some  sixteen  years 


PREFACE.  7 

after  Mr.  Palmer's  decision,  the  interest  in  telepathy 
and  more  especially  the  personal  responsibility  that 
its  existence  implied  for  all  conscious  thinkers 
stimulated  me  to  the  making  of  the  four-act  play 
that  follows.  On  its  presentation,  there  was  some 
discussion  and  more  than  a  few  personal  inquiries 
as  to  whether  the  play  was  a  bit  of  mere  sensa 
tionalism  or  a  true  expression  of  the  author's  belief. 
Because  of  such  sincerity  as  the  occasion  of  their 
utterance  implied,  the  following  lines  from  a  short 
speech  made  in  response  to  the  curtain-calls  on  the 
first  night  of  the  play  in  New  York  were  usually  in 
cluded  in  the  replies  to  such  inquiries  : 

"  The  members  of  a  large  part  of  the  community 
with  whom  I  am  in  sympathy  have  long  been  ac 
customed  to  regard  their  private  minds  as  parks  in 
which  there  might  be  neither  prohibition  nor  police 
men  ;  but  if,  as  scientists  assert,  a  malignant  and 
destructive  thought  of  mine,  like  a  circling  Mar- 
conigram,  affects,  first  my  family,  then  friends,  then 
acquaintances,  before  it  finally  filters  impotently  to 
its  finish,  I  want  to  know  it;  and  if,  after  twenty 
years  of  fairly  intelligent  investigation,  I  believe 
that  it  is  so,  I  feel  it  my  duty  as  a  dramatist  to  state 
it." 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  PLAY. 


In  the  season  of  1890,  Mr.  Dion  Boucicault  re- 
signed,  and  I  acquired,  the  rather  high-sounding  title 
of  "  dramatist  extraordinary "  for  Mr.  Palmer's 
Madison  Square  stock  Company ;  and  when  I  could 
forget  the  title,  I  thought  about  writing  plays.  One 
day,  Mrs.  Booth  and  Mr.  Stoddart  asked  for  a  one- 
act  play;  and  I  immediately  cast  about  for  a  subject 
that  would  give  those  two  players  each  an  adequate 
opportunity. 

Mrs.  Booth  was  no  longer  young;  and  Mr.  Stod 
dart  was  nearly  seventy  years  old:  Mrs.  Booth's 
latest  successes  had  been  in  playing  mothers;  and 
Mr.  Stoddart  had  just  made  a  hit  as  a  magistrate.  I 
had  recently  reported  a  murder  trial  in  St.  Louis, 
wherein  the  attorneys  for  the  defense  had  tried  to 
take  their  case  to  the  Supreme  Court  at  Washington 
on  the  constitutional  point,  that  the  accused  had  been 
denied  an  open  trial,  by  the  fact  of  the  sheriff  re 
stricting  the  number  of  spectators  to  those  holding 
tickets  of  admission.  This  Constitutional  point,  and 
Mr.  Stoddart's  venerable  appearance,  and  Mrs. 
Booth's  pathos  as  a  mother,  were  the  high  lights  that 
suggested  the  mother  in  person  making  the  appeal  to 
the  judge  in  person ;  and  this  enforced  the  story  of  a 
son,  apparently  guilty,  but  morally  innocent.  The 
reverberation  of  the  Bishop  telepathic  experiences 
invited  a  bond  of  that  kind  between  the  Justice  and 
the  mother;  and  a  recent  reading  of  Bret  Harte's 
poem  quoted  in  Act  II  of  the  present  play  offered  a 
point  of  contact  between  the  ordinary  reading  public 
and  the  esoteric  group  interested  in  telepathy.  The 

8 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR  9 

result  was  a  one-act  play  which,  with  the  exception 
of  the  Brookfield  and  the  Viola  elements  introduced 
later,  was  substantially  Act  II  of  the  present  drama ; 
and  was  the  little  sketch,  written  quickly  for  Mrs. 
Booth  and  Mr.  Stoddart,  and  as  quickly  declined  by 
Mr.  Palmer, 

About  that  time,  Mr.  Henry  Loomis  Nelson,  my 
neighbor  at  New  Rochelle,  showed  me  a  letter  from 
Mark  Twain,  refusing  to  write  a  short  story  for 
Harper's  because  Mark  Twain  had  found  "  that  a 
short  story  was  a  novel  in  the  cradle  which,  if  taken 
out  occasionally  and  fondled,  would  grow  into  a  full- 
sized  book."  Partly  on  that  hint,  my  one-act  play 
was  occasionally  taken  from  its  cradle  and  caressed. 

During  several  years,  with  the  increasing  public 
interest  in  telepathy  and  additional  information,  the 
cradle  playlet  grew,  in  plan  at  least,  into  a  four-act 
play.  Before  wasting  time  on  its  actual  writing, 
however,  I  accepted  a  chance  to  have  the  one-act 
piece  played  to  a  private  audience  of  some  two  hun 
dred  men  in  the  Lamb's  Club ;  and  as  the  little  play 
contained  what  was  most  diaphanous  and  attenu 
ated  in  the  whole  story,  if  such  an  audience,  entirely 
lacking  the  feminine  element,  would  accept  the  fa 
ble,  the  remainder  of  the  venture  would  be  up  to  the 
skill  of  the  dramatist. 

While  a  one-act  play,  undoubtedly  a  four-act 
drama  in  the  cradle,  is  still  in  petto,  it  is  permitted 
some  of  the  cradle  gelatinous  characteristics;  but 
when  the  growth  is  attained,  it  is  expected  to  have  a 
developed  backbone,  and  substantially  articulated 
members.  Instead  of  being  perhaps  a  mere  sugges 
tive  cross-section  of  a  story,  it  must  have  a  begin 
ning,  a  middle  and  an  end;  and  the  dramatist's  in 
junction  of  "  don't  tell  it — do  it,"  becomes  inflexibly 
operative.  To  merely  report  the  murder  and  describe 
the  prisoner  is  not  enough ;  the  audience  must  see  the 
occurrence  and  must  know  the  individual:  also,  it 


io  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

must  know  him  enough  to  be  interested  in  him ;  and 
know  him  in  a  way  that  will  make  them  like  him. 
That  his  mother  loves  him  is  not  sufficient  for  the 
longer  story,  as  it  is  for  the  shorter  one,  where  the 
mother  is  so  much  more  the  dominant  factor. 

As  Auditors,  our  interest  in  the  boy  is  thus  far 
through  the  mother ;  but  to  make  the  interest  deeper, 
it  is  best  to  give  him  a  sweetheart,  who  shall  also  suf 
fer  through  his  trouble ;  and  by  our  sympathy  for  her 
give  us  an  additional  emotional  stir. 

Again,  every  force  in  the  theatre  is  unconvincing 
until  it  is  personified;  therefore  we  must  carry 
through  the  play  a  representative  of  that  civic  law 
that  is  opposed  to  our  boy.  This  representative  is 
our  prosecuting  attorney.  As  an  officer  of  the  law 
his  opposition  to  a  criminal  is  logically  enough ;  but 
it  is  stronger  when  the  personal  equation  also  comes 
into  play :  this  rule  invites  us  to  make  our  exponent 
of  civic  law  not  only  a  prosecuting  attorney  but  a  ri 
val  for  the  boy's  sweetheart. 

As  I  have  said,  the  one-act  play  was  practically 
Act  II  of  the  four-act  version  ;  and  as'far  as  the  story 
goes  contained  all  that  is  there  now :  that  is,  it  had 
the  story  and  besides  the  story,  the  mystery  of  coin 
cidence  and  the  hint  of  telepathic  communication. 
If  the  story  was  to  expand  into  four  acts,  these  hints 
and  gropings  must  take  on  a  firmer  fiber  along  with 
the  structural  strength  of  the  story:  in  addition  to 
theory,  there  must  be  some  substanial  and  tangible 
performances ;  telepathy  must  do  something;  hyp 
notism  must  dominate  some  important  situation. 
This  something  to  be  done,  and  this  situation  to  be 
dominated,  must  be  devised  by  the  dramatist. 

It  wasn't  the  work  of  a  moment;  with  my  mind 
on  the  characters  of  the  little  play  and  the  tentative 
additions  of  boy,  and  sweetheart,  and  prosecuting  ri 
val,  I  went  round  this  nucleus,  at  times,  like  a  cooper 
round  a  barrel ;  and  again  like  a  blind  hor»e  round 


THE-  WITCHING  HOUR.  n 

the  mill-stone.  I  emphasize  that  fact,  not  to  ask 
sympathy  for  a  task  that  is  always  fascinating  and 
filled  with  compensations ;  but  to  remind  the  younger 
writers  that  as  Emerson  says :  "  The  oracle  speaks 
because  we  have  laid  siege  to  the  shrine." 

In  mentally  considering  possible  telepathic  at 
tempts  and  accomplishments,  there  gradually 
dawned,  and  increasingly  bore  in  upon  my  conscious 
ness,  the  moral  side  of  the  question.  If  anyone's 
thinking  could  affect  the  thoughts  of  another,  what 
a  responsibility  for  the  thinker!  And  how  dare  to 
exploit  this  force  in  the  theatre  and  blink  that  side  of 
it  ?  How  make  a  drama  in  which  that  power  was  to 
be  consciously  exerted  and  ignore  the  morals  of  it? 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  how  admit,  recognize,  touch 
and  manipulate  that  phase  of  it  and  not  make  a 
preachy  play  that  the  public  would  flee?  It  pre 
sented  almost  an  impasse — but  one  that  piqued  and 
generated  the  force  for  its  own  removal. 

My  cogitations  ran  somewhat  in  this  line : 

If  the  civic  law  required  to  be  personified,  this 
force  of  telepathy  required  personification  no  less: 
The  character  of  the  old  Justice  in  the  little  play  lent 
himself  readily  as  this  latter  exponent.  Now,  as  the 
civic  law's  representative  would  have  his  dramatic 
opposition  in  the  boy  hero,  the  Justice  representing 
telepathy  needed  likewise  an  opponent  on  whom  he 
might  work.  A  desire  for  economy  lost  considerable 
time  trying  to  adjust  the  attorney  to  this  role  also. 

And  then  the  requirements  slowly  seemed  to  de 
mand  that  this  opponent  should  be  one  who,  when 
convinced,  would  be  thereby  improved  or  reformed — 
and  to  be  made  better,  he  must  start  bad,  or,  at  any 
rate,  only  negatively  good — and  perhaps  he  should 
be  a  person  who  had  misused  this  mental  influence,  if 
only  unconsciously.  A  dreamy  ramble  through  the 
trades  and  professions  in  search  of  him  found  the 
grass  tied  when  the  path  of  the  imagination  reached 


12  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

"  Gamblers  " ;  then  there  was  one  of  those  associa 
tive  stumbles  that,  as  far  as  I  know,  hook-up  the  as 
sembling  of  every  play ;  and  Mr.  Canfield,  the  art- 
loving  gambler  of  New  York  and  the  sunset  picture 
by  Rosseau,  which  was  already  a  "  property  "  in  the 
little  play,  flowed  together  and  I  had  an  idea  of  Jack 
Brookfield. 

The  one-act  play  already  placed  the  boy  and  his 
trial  in  Kentucky;  and  the  sporting  inclinations  of 
Louisville  offered  continued  hospitality  to  the  story's 
added  items.  The  new  character  of  Brookfield  ab 
sorbed  my  attention.  I  built  him  up  physically,  men 
tally  and  morally — or,  rather,  he  built  himself  up. 
He  lived  in  a  most  attractive  dwelling ;  he  was  soft 
spoken,  reticent,  and  awfully  determined ;  he  was  ed 
ucated  and  refined.  Of  course,  his  pictures  prompted 
much  of  that — he  owned  quite  a  gallery  of  them 
by  this  time ;  and  I  liked  him.  Quite  against  my  bet 
ter  judgment,  I  admired  him.  I  introduced  him  to 
Helen ;  and  found  that  they  were  old  sweethearts — 
that  was  one  of  the  things  Brookfield  had  been  keep 
ing  from  me  all  the  time.  He  and  Justice  Prentice 
began  to  talk  pictures  as  soon  as  they  saw  each  other. 
I  expected  that  the  prosecuting  attorney  and  he 
would  quarrel,  but  they  didn't;  they  were  quite 
friendly.  I  saw  that  the  attorney  had  spent  consider 
able  time  in  Brookfield's  place ;  and  that  Brookfield 
was  always  the  finer,  the  deeper,  the  superior  man. 
The  "  niggers  ",  the  old  darky  body-servant  and  the 
fresh  young  hall-boy — came  in  with  drinks  and 
terrapin  and  messages.  Real  Southern  gentlemen 
were  there — more  than  I  needed,  in  fact  more  than 
any  dramatist  could  afford  to  have  about. 

That's  the  way  with  a  play;  you  dig,  and  lift, 
and  build,  and  ponder  and  suddenly  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  seems  overcome ;  and  the  things  and  the 
people  float,  and  flow,  and  drift,  until  you  coax  and 
shepherd  them  into  the  orderly  walks  and  divisions 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  13 

that  you've  laid  out  for  them,  and  which  you  call 
scenes  and  acts. 

Colonel  Watterson,  in  an  after-dinner  talk  when 
the  Witching  Hour  was  playing,  said  derisively: 
"  Think  of  a  Louisville  gambler  owning  a  Corot — 
and  think  of  a  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  on  that 
account,  or  any  other,  visiting  his  den  and  consorting 
with  him.  Preposterous!  What  does  this  author 
ask  us  to  accept  ?  And  yet,"  he  continued  "  it  hap 
pened.  One  of  the  most  cultivated  men  of  Louis 
ville  a  generation  ago  was  Mr.  Eli  Marks,  a  profes 
sional  gambler  with  a  luxuriously  fitted  house  such 
as  Mr.  Thomas  giv*s  Brookfield ;  a  house  filled  taste 
fully  with  rare  pictures  and  rare  books ;  and  I  have 
on  more  than  one  occasion  been  in  his  delightful 
place  in  the  company  of  a  Justice  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  United  States.  Mr.  Thomas  didn't 
know  Eli  Marks — that  was  before  his  time.  I'm 
sure  he  never  heard  of  him.  He  could  only  have  got 
this  combination  of  refined  gambler — rare  picture — 
Louisville  and  a  Supreme  Justice,  from  me  tele- 
pathically." 

With  the  discovery  of  Brookfield,  things  every 
where  began  to  click  and  drop  into  place ;  the  mur 
der  had  been  committed  in  his  house;  the  fat- 
headed  young  rowdy  who  was  killed  was  one  of  his 
patrons;  the  boy  hero  was  a  young  architect  and 
decorator  who  had  "  done  over  "  the  house ;  Brook- 
field  had  given  him  the  job  because  he  knew  the 
mother;  the  boy's  sweetheart  was  Brookfield's 
niece;  Brookfield  began  to  arrange  himself  on  the 
side  of  the  boy  and  against  the  attorney  before  the 
murder,  and  on  this  earlier  question  of  the  sweet 
heart  niece.  Brookfield,  almost  my  last  acquaintance 
in  the  case,  was  the  whole  story.  The  telepathic 
power  was  his ;  explained  and  made  clear  by  the  Jus 
tice.  Think  of  a  telepathic  gambler,  a  fellow  that 
knew  what  the  other  fellow  held  but  believed  his 
knowledge  was  only  good  guess-work.  Then  that 


I4  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

quiet,  dominant  way  of  his — fitting  in  so  comfort 
ably  with  all  that  we  know  about  hypnotism. 

Of  course,  Brookfield  was  there  all  the  time,  wait- 
ing  to  be  deduced,  calculated  and  discovered  like  the 
planet  Neptune. 

And  it  so  happens  with  most  play-building:  the 
various  difficulties  seem  to  point  to  a  general  center ; 
seem  to  call  for  some  facts  or  figures  of  extrication 
that  more  and  more,  as  we  go  round  them  condense 
to  a  single  happening  or  personage;  and  suddenly 
that  solvent  takes  on  a  principal  importance ;  and  our 
whole  fabric  is  to  be  revised  and  adjusted  to  the 
newly-found  situation  or  man. 

But  Brookfield  and  his  magic  were  to  much  of  a 
discovery;  it  was  all  too  smooth;  no  public  would 
accept  it ;  it  was  just  another  of  those  dreams  which 
aren't  any  truer  for  the  playwright  than  for  any 
other  when  the  dreamer  wakes.  Too  bad !  A  gold 
mine  to  be  abandoned  because  of  an  embarrassment 
of  nuggets !  That  is  another  stopping  place  in  play 
building,  like  the  three-quarter,  mark  depression  of 
author  and  actors  that  comes  during  play  rehearsals. 

Couldn't  something  be  found  to  still  the  foreseen 
objections  of  the  public?  Couldn't  the  press-agent 
stand  up  in  the  private  box  and  present  a  few  ar 
guments?  And  then  this  discovery  or  rather  re 
discovery  :  The  public  at  the  play  where  there  must 
be  contest  is  always  itself  a  third  point  of  a  triangle. 
Why  not  give  the  public  a  representative  in  the  cast 
of  characters — a  person  who  should  doubt  and  disbe 
lieve  and  deny  to  the  very  finish  ?  Of  course !  And 
in  that  setting,  to  doubt  and  to  deny  would  be  to  be 
comic;  but  standing  for  the  public,  our  represen 
tative  must  be  made  good-hearted  and  likable  and  so, 
last  of  all,  Lew  Ellinger  was  invented,  or,  at  least, 
he  stepped  out  from  that  convivial  chafing-dish 
group  around  Brookfield. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  drama,  Ellinger  was  some- 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  i$ 

what  in  the  way,  but  when  he  couldn't  be  conven 
iently  put  into  a  scene,  his  business  of  doubt  and  de 
nial  was  given  temporarily  to  someone  else  and  his 
own  best  work  reserved  until  most  needed,  which  is 
when  Brookfield,  informed  and  converted,  turns 
about  and  begins  to  array  himself  on  the  side  of  the 
theories  and  against  our  hard-headed  and  sane  in 
credulity. 

There  are  the  bones  of  the  play  and  somewhat  of 
the  manner  of  their  putting  together.  It  would  be 
only  to  write  the  play  ovr  again,  to  report,  if  it  were 
possible,  the  multiplication  of  incident  and  cross-ref 
erence  that  make  the  articulation,  tissue  and  com 
plexion  for  it,  as  they  do  for  every  play.  This  much, 
however,  is  offered  in  the  belief  that  something  in 
it  may  be  helpfully  suggestive  to  less  experienced 
though  more  promising  journeymen  working  some 
where  in  the  same  familiar  but  uncertain  stuff. 

Augustus  Thomas. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 


Original  company  in  Mr.  Shubert's  production 
AT  THE  HACKETT  THEATRE  NEW  YORK 

Nov.  1 8,  1907 
In  order  of  their  appearance 

Jo S.  E.  Hines 

JACK  BROOKFIELD John  Mason 

TOM  DENNING Freeman  Barnes 

HARVEY T.  P.  Jackson 

MRS.  ALICE  CAMPBELL Ethel  Winthrop 

MRS.  HELEN  WHIPPLE Jennie  A.  Eustace 

VIOLA Adelaide  Nowak 

CLAY  WHIPPLE Morgan  Coman 

FRANK  HARDMUTH George  Nash 

LEW  ELLINGER William  Sampson 

JUSTICE  PRENTICE Russ  Whytal 

JUSTICE  HENDERSON E.J.  Walton 

SERVANT W.  Butterfield 

COLONEL  BAYLEY Harry  Had  field 

MR.  EMMETT Mr.  Fawnsgaines 

m 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  : — The  library  and  card-room  at  "  JACK 
BROOKFIELD'S/'  Louisville. 

There  is  a  large  doorway  center,  at  the  back, 
that  lets  into  a  hallway,  in  which  the  bannister 
of  a  stairway  that  descends  to  the  street  level  is 
seen.  A  second  and  smaller  doorway  is  near  the 
front  in  the  wall  to  the  left  of  the  stage.  This 
doorway  leads  to  the  dining-room.  The  second 
plan  of  the  left  wall  is  occupied  by  a  fireplace 
and  mantel,  surmounted  by  a  marine  painting. 
The  fireplace  is  surrounded  by  a  garde  au  feu 
club  seat. 

The  rest  of  the  left  wall,  as  well  as  the  rear 
wall  on  both  sides  of  the  center  door  and  all  of 
the  right  wall,  is  fitted  with  bookcases  about 
five  feet  high,  in  which  are  books  handsomely 
bound. 

The  walls  above  these  bookcases  are  hung 
with  heavy  brocaded  Genoese  velvet  of  a  deep 
maroon  in  color  and  loosely  draped.  The  ceil 
ing  is  of  hard  wood,  gilded.  On  the  wall  vel 
vet,  at  proper  intervals,  are  paintings  by  cele 
brated  modern  artists.  Some  of  these  paintings 
are  fitted  with  hooded  electric  lights.  Such  a 
fitting  is  above  a  noticeable  Corot,  which  hangs 
to  the  right  of  the  center  door. 

A  dark-red  rug  of  luxuriant  thickness  is  on 
the  floor.  The  furniture  is  simple,  massive,  and 
Colonial  in  type.  It  consists  of  a  heavy  sofa 
17 


i8  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

above  the  fireplace  and  running  at  right  angles 
to  the  wall.  A  heavy  table  fitted  with  books  is 
in  the  center;  a  smaller  table  for  cards  is  at 
the  stage,  right.  Chairs  are  at  both  tables. 

Above  the  center  door  is  a  marble  bust  of 
Minerva,  surmounted  by  a  bronze  raven,  lac 
quered  black,  evidently  illustrating  Poe's  poem. 
The  Antommarchi  death-mask  of  Napoleon  in 
bronze  hangs  on  the  dark  wood  fireplace.  A 
bronze  mask  of  Beethoven  is  on  one  of  the 
bookcases  and  on  another  is  a  bust  of  Dante. 
A  bronze  Sphinx  is  on  another  bookcase. 

The  room  is  lighted  by  a  standing  lamp  at 
the  back  and  by  the  glow  from  the  fireplace. 
Over  the  table,  center,  is  suspended  an  electric 
lamp  in  a  large  bronze  shade.  This  lamp,  while 
not  lighted,  is  capable  of  being  turned  on  by  a 
push  button,  which  depends  from  it. 

On  the  table,  center,  is  a  large  paper-cutter 
made  of  an  ivory  tusk. 

Empty  stage.  After  pause,  sound  of  laughter 
and  dishes,  left. 

(Enter  Jo,  sleek  negro  of  Pullman  car  variety, 
by  stairway  and  center  door.  He  goes  to  door, 
left,  and  pauses — laughter  ceases.) 

Jo.    Massar  Brookfield. 
JACK  (outside  left).    Well,  Jo? 
Jo.    Mr.  Denning,  sah. 
JACK.    Ask  Mr.  Denning  to  come  up. 
Jo.     Yes,  sah.     (Exit  center.     More  talk  and 
laughter,  left.) 

(JACK  enters  left.  He  walks  to  center  on  way  to 
ward  main  door.  Pauses.  Returns,  left.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  19 

JACK  (at  door  left).  Lew!  I  say — Lew — you 
ladies  excuse  Mr.  Ellinger  a  moment  ? 

HELEN,  ALICE,  VIOLA  (outside).  Oh — yes,  cer 
tainly. 

(Enter  LEW  ELLINGER,  from  dining-room,  left.) 

LEW.    See  me  ? 

JACK.  Tom  Denning's  here — he  expects  a  game. 
My  sister  and  Mrs.  Whipple  object  to  the  paste 
boards — so  don't  mention  it  before  them. 

LEW.    Not  a  word — but,  Tom — ? 

JACK.    I'll  attend  to  Tom. 

LEW.     Good.     (Starts  back  to  dining-room.) 

(Enter  TOM  DENNING,  right  center;  he  is  fat,  in 
dolent  type.) 

TOM.  Hello,  Lew.  (LEW  stops  and  turns.  JACK 
motions  him  out  and  LEW  goes.)  What  you  got 
to  night  ?  Young  Rockefeller  ? 

JACK.    Some  ladies. 

TOM  (grinning).    What 

JACK  (sternly).  My  sister  and  her  daughter — 
and  a  lady  friend  of  theirs. 

TOM  (disappointed). — No  game? 

JACK.    Not  until  they  go. 

TOM  (getting  a  peek  off  into  dining-room).  Oh 
— chafing  dish. 

JACK.  They've  been  to  the  opera. — I  had  Harvey 
brew  them  some  terrapin. 

TOM  (complaining).  My  luck!  (His  hands  hang 
limp,) 

JACK.  No,  I  think  there's  some  left.  (Pause.) 
I'm  going  to  take  a  long  chance  and  introduce  you, 
Tom,  only  don't  say  anything  about  poker  before  the 
ladies. 

TOM.     Thought  you  said  your  sister — 

JACK.    I  did. 


20  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

TOM.    Well,  she's  on,  isn't  she? 
JACK.    But  she  doesn't  like  it — and  my  niece — my 
niece  doesn't  like  it. 

(Enter  HARVEY,  old  negro  servant,  from  dining- 
room,  left.) 

HARVEY.  I'se  made  some  coffee,  Mars  Jack.  You 
have  it  in  the  dining-room  or  heah,  sah? 

JACK  (going).    I'll  ask  the  ladies. 

TOM.    How  are  you,  Harvey  ? 

HARVEY   (bowing).     Mars  Denning 

JACK  (who  has  paused  at  door,  left).  Got  some 
terrapin  for  Mr.  Denning,  Harvey? 

HARVEY.    Yas,  sah.    (To  TOM.)    Yas,  sah. 

(Exit  JACK,  left.) 

TOM.    They  left  some  of  the  rum,  too,  I  hope. 

HARVEY.  Couldn't  empty  my  ice-box  in  one  even 
ing,  Mars  Denning.  (Starts  off.  Pause.)  De 
ladies  getting  up.  (Stands  up  stage  in  front  of  fire. 
TOM  goes  right.  A  pause.) 

(Enter  JACK.) 

JACK.    The  ladies  will  have  their  coffee  in  here, 
Harvey. 
HARVEY.    Yes,  sir. 

(Enter  ALICE.    She  is  smartly  gowned  and  is  ener 
getic.) 

JACK.    Alice — this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Denning — 
my  sister — Mrs.  Campbell. 
ALICE.    Mr.  Denning. 

(Enter  HELEN  and  VIOLA.     HELEN  is  thoroughly 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  21 

feminine  in  type,  and  is  young-looking  for  the 
mother  of  a  boy  of  twenty — VIOLA  is-  an  athletic 
Kentucky  girl.) 

HELEN.  I  never  take  coffee  even  after  dinner 
and  at  this  hour — never! 

(Exit  HARVEY.) 

JACK.  Mrs.  WhippK  may  I  present  Mr.  Den 
ning? 

HELEN.    Mr.  Denning. 

TOM.    Good-evening! 

JACK.    My  niece,  Miss  Viola  Campbell. 

TOM.    How  are  you? 

(  VIOL  A  bows.) 

JACK.  Mr.  Denning's  just  left  the  foundry  and 
he's  very  hungry. 

TOM.    And  thirsty 

JACK,  (pushing  him  tofvard  dining  room).  Yes, 
and  thirsty.  Uncle  Harvey's  going  to  save  his  life. 

TOM.    Ha,  ha!    Excuse  me!    (Exit.) 

ALICE.    The  foundry?     (Sits  right  of  table.) 

JACK.  Never  did  a  day's  work  in  his  life.  That's 
Tom  Denning. 

VIOLA  (on  sofa  at  fireplace).  Tom  Denning's 
the  name  of  the  big  race-horse. 

JACK.    Yes — he's  named  after  the  race-horse. 

HELEN,  (on  sofa,  beside  VIOLA).  What  does 
he  do? 

JACK.  His  father — father's  in  the  packing  busi 
ness — Kansas  City  ;  this  fellow  has  four  men  shovel 
ing  money  away  from  him  so  he  can  berathe. 
(Starts  toward  dining-room.) 

ALICE,    (in  amused  protest).    Oh,  Jack! 


22  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.  Yes — I'm  one  of  them — you'll  find  cigar 
ettes  in  that  box. 

ALICE.    Jack!     (Rises.) 

JACK  (apologising).    Not  you,  Alice,  but 

VIOLA  (protesting).  Well,  certainly  not  for 
me,  Uncle  Jack? 

JACK.    Of  course,  not  you. 

HELEN.    Thank  you,  Mr.  Brookfield ! 

ALICE  (joining  JACK)  .  My  dear  brother,  you  con 
fuse  the  Kentucky  ladies  with  some  of  your  Eas 
tern  friends. 

JACK.  Careful,  Alice.  Helen  lived  in  the  East 
twenty  years,  remember. 

HELEN.     But  even  my  husband  didn't  smoke. 

JACK.    No? 

HELEN.    Never — in  his  life 

JACK.  In  his  life?  Why  make  such  a  pessimis 
tic  distinction  ? 

(HELEN  turns  away  right.) 

ALICE.  Jack!  (After  a  look  to  HELEN.)  How 
can  you  say  a  thing  like  that  ? 

JACK.  She's  the  man's  widow — I've  got  to  say  it 
if  any  one  does. 

(Enter  HARVEY,  with  coffee.) 

Mr.  Denning's  got  his  tortoise,  Uncle  Harvey  ? 

HARVEY  (offering  tray  to  HELEN).  He's  got  the 
same  as  we  all  had,  Mars  Jack.  Yas,  sah. 
(Laughs.) 

HELEN.    None,  thank  you. 

(HARVEY  moves  on.) 

JACK.  I'll  take  it,  Uncle  Harvey,  I  think  three  or 
four  of  them'll  help  this  head  of  mine. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  23 

ALICE  (taking  coffee).  Why  don't  you  let  Viola 
cure  your  headache  ? 

VIOLA  (taking  coffee).    Yes,  Uncle  Jack. 
JACK.    No,  the  coffee '11  fix  it,  I'm  sure. 

(Exit  HARVEY.) 

VIOLA.    Sit  here  while  you  drink  it. 

JACK.  No — no,  Viola.  It  isn't  enough  for  that. 
I'll  conserve  your  mesmeric  endowment  for  a  real 
occasion.  (Swallows  coffee  in  one  mouthful.) 

VIOLA.    Goodness !    Just  to  please  me  ? 

JACK  (shaking  head).  Don't  want  to  spoil  your 
awful  stories.  (Exit  to  dining-room.) 

HELEN.  Is  Viola  a  magnetic  healer,  too?  (Sits 
right  of  table.) 

VIOLA.  (Takes  a  book,  and  returns  to  sofa, 
carrying  also  the  large  ivory  tusk  paper-cutter.)  Oh, 
no. 

ALICE  (sitting  left  of  table.)  Yes — a  remark 
able  one. 

VIOLA.  Only  headaches,  Mrs.  Whipple.  Those 
I  crush  out  of  my  victims. 

HELEN.  I  remember  Jack  used  to  have  a  wonder 
ful  ability  that  way  as  a  young  man. 

VIOLA,    He  says  only  with  the  girls. 

ALICE.    We  know  better,  don't  we? 

HELEN.    Yes. 

VIOLA.  Well,  for  myself,  I'd  rather  have  Uncle 
Jack  sit  by  me  than  any  regular  physician  I  ever 
saw. 

HELEN.    You  mean  if  you  were  ill  ? 

VIOLA.    Of  course. 

ALICE.  You  must  be  very  clear  with  Mrs.  Whip- 
pie  on  that  point,  Viola,  because  she  used  to  prefer 
your  Uncle  Jack  to  sit  by  her,  even  when  she  wasn't 
ill. 

HELEN.    (To  VIOLA.)    But  especially  when  ill, 


24  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

my    dear.      (To    ALICE)      And   has    he    quit    it? 

ALICE.  Yes — you  know  Jack  went  into  politics 
for  a  while. 

HELEN.    Did  he? 

ALICE.  Local  politics — yes — something  about  the 
police  didn't  please  him  and  then  he  quit  all  of  his 
curative  work. 

HELEN.    Why? 

ALICE.  Well,  in  politics,  I  believe  there's  some 
thing  unpleasant  about  the  word  "  heeler." 

HELEN.    Oh ! 

VIOLA.    Entirely  different  spelling,  however. 

HELEN.  Our  English  language  is  so  elastic  in 
that  way. 

ALICE.  Yes,  the  papers  joked  about  his  magnetic 
touch.  The  word  "  touch  "  is  used  offensively  also. 
So  Jack  dropped  the  whole  business. 

HELEN.    And  Viola  inherits  the  ability? 

ALICE.  Well,  if  one  can  inherit  ability  from  an 
uncle. 

HELEN.    From  a  family. 

ALICE.  That's  even  more  generous,  but  Viola  is 
like  Jack  in  every  way  in  which  a  girl  may  resemble 
a  man.  Horses  and  boats  and  every  kind  of  personal 
risk — and 

VIOLA.     (Rises.)    I'm  proud  of  it. 

ALICE.    And  Jack  spoils  her  ? 

VIOLA.    Am  I  spoiled?    (Goes  to  back  of  table.) 

ALICE.  He  couldn't  love  her  more  if  he  were  her 
father 

(Enter  CLAY,  L.,  a  boy  of  twenty.) 

CLAY  (pausing  at  door) .    May  I  come  in  ? 

VIOLA.    Certainly. 

CLAY.    Isn't  this  a  jolly  room,  mother? 

HELEN.     Beautiful. 

CLAY  (waiving  hand  above).    And  the  sleeping 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  25 

apartments  are  what  I  take  pride  in.  Private  bath 
to  every  bedroom,  reading  lamps  just  over  the  pil 
lows 

VIOLA.  Haven't  Jou  seen  the  house,  Mrs.  Whip- 
pie? 

HELEN.    Not  above  this  floor. 

ALICE.  Would  it  interest  you?  (Rises  and  goes 
left.) 

HELEN.    Very  much. 

ALICE  (at  door  of  dining-room).    Jack 

JACK  (outside).    Yes 

ALICE.    (To  HELEN.)    Will  I  do  as  your  guide? 

HELEN     (Rises.)    Oh,  yes. 

(Enter  JACK  L.) 

ALICE.    I  want  to  show  Helen  over  the  house. 

JACK.    Do. 

ALICE.    The  rooms  are  empty? 

JACK.    Empty,  of  course. 

ALICE.  Don't  be  too  indignant,  they're  not  al 
ways  empty.  (To  HELEN.)  In  Jack's  house  one 
is  liable  to  find  a  belated  pilgrim  in  any  room. 

HELEN  (laughing).  And  a  lady  walking  in  un 
announced  would  be  something  of  a  surprise, 
wouldn't  she  ? 

JACK.    Well — two  ladies  would,  certainly. 

ALICE.    Jack ! 

JACK.  My  dear  sister — they  would.  Hard  lines 
when  the  reputation  of  a  man's  house  isn't  respec 
ted  by  his  own  sister — ha!  (Exit  leftf  with  mock 
indignation.) 

HELEN  (smiling).    The  same  Jack. 

ALICE.  Intensified  and  confirmed!  (Pausing  at 
door.)  Will  you  come,  too,  Viola? 

VIOLA.    No,  thank  you,  mother. 

(HELEN  looks  at  ALICE.    She  and  ALICE  'exeunt 
L.  c.) 


26  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

CLAY.  What  was  Frank  Hardmuth  saying  to 
you? 

VIOLA.    When? 

CLAY.  At  supper— and  in  the  box  at  the  theater, 
too? 

VIOLA.  Oh — Frank  Hardmuth — nobody  pays 
any  attention  to  him. 

CLAY.  I  thought  you  paid  a  great  deal  of  atten 
tion  to  what  he  was  saying. 

VIOLA.  In  the  same  theater  party  a  girl's  got  to 
listen — or  leave  the  box. 

CLAY.    Some  persons  listen  to  the  opera. 

VIOLA.  I  told  him  that  was  what  I  wanted  to 
do. 

CLAY.    Was  he  making  love  to  you,  Viola  ? 

VIOLA.    I  shouldn't  call  it  that. 

CLAY.  Would  anybody  else  have  called  it  that 
if  they'd  overheard  it  ? 

VIOLA.    I  don't  think  so. 

CLAY.    Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  was  about  ? 

VIOLA.    I  don't  see  why  you  ask. 

CLAY.  I  asked  because  he  seemed  so  much  in 
earnest — and  because  you  seemed  so  much  in  earnest. 

VIOLA.    Well? 

CLAY.  And  Frank  Hardmuth's  a  fellow  that'll 
stand  watching.  (Looks  off  left.) 

VIOLA  (smiling).    He  stood  a  good  deal  to-night. 

CLAY.  I  mean  that  he's  a  clever  lawyer  and  would 
succeed  in  making  a  girl  commit  herself  in  some  way 
to  him  before  she  knew  it. 

VIOLA.  I  think  that  depends  more  on  the  way  the 
girl  feels. 

CLAY.  Well — I  don't  want  you  to  listen  to  Frank 
Hardmuth  under  the  idea  that  he's  the  only  chance 
in  Kentucky. 

VIOLA.    Why,  Clay  Whipple 

CLAY.  You  know  very  well  I've  been  courting 
you  myself,  Viola,  don't  you? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  27 

VIOLA.  You  haven't.  You've  been  coming  round 
like  a  big  boy. 

CLAY.  (Follows  right.)  Have  I  gone  with  any 
other  girl — anywhere? 

VIOLA.    I  don't  know.     (Sits  right.) 

CLAY.  And  I've  spoken  to  your  Uncle  Jack  about 
it. 

VIOLA.    To  Uncle  Jack? 

CLAY.    Yes. 

VIOLA.  (Rises.)  Nobody  told  you  to  speak  to 
Uncle  Jack. 

CLAY.    Mother  did. 

VIOLA.    Your  mother? 

CLAY.  Yes.  Mother's  got  regular  old-fashioned 
ideas  about  boys  and  young  ladies  and  she  said, 
"if  you  think  Viola  likes  you,  the  honorable  thing 
to  do  is  to  speak  to  her  guardian  first." 

VIOLA.    Oh ! — you  thought  that,  did  you  ? 

CLAY.    I  certainly  did. 

VIOLA.    I  can't  imagine  why. 

CLAY.  I  thought  that  because  you're  Jack  Brook- 
field's  niece,  and  nobody  of  his  blood  would  play  a 
game  that  isn't  fair. 

VIOLA.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  always  throw  that 
up  to  me.  (Goes  to  sofa.)  'Tisn't  our  fault  if  Un 
cle  Jack's  a  sporting  man.  (Sits.) 

CLAY  (following^.  Why,  Viola,  I  was  praising 
him.  I  think  your  Uncle  Jack  the  gamest  man  in 
Kentucky. 

VIOLA.  Nor  that  either.  I  don't  criticise  my 
Uncle  Jack,  but  he's  a  lot  better  man  than  just  a 
fighter  or  a  card-player.  I  love  him  for  his  big 
heart. 

CLAY.  So  do  I.  If  I'd  thought  you  cared  I'd 
have  said  you  were  too  much  like  him  at  heart  to  let 
a  fellow  come  a-courtin*  if  you  meant  to  refuse 
him — and  that  was  all  that  was  in  my  mind  when  I 
asked  about  Frank  Hardmuth — and  I  don't  care 


28  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

what  Hardmuth  said  either,  if  it  wasn't  personal 
that  way. 

VIOLA.    Frank  Hardmuth's  nothing  to  me. 

CLAY.  And  he  won't  be?  (Pause.)  Will  he-—? 
(Pause.)  Say  that.  Because  I'm  awfully  in  love 
with  you. 

VIOLA.    Are  you  ? 

CLAY.  You  bet  I  am.  Just  Tom-fool  heels  over 
head  in  love  with  you. 

VIOLA.    You  never  said  so. 

CLAY.  Mother  said  a  boy  in  an  architect's  office 
had  better  wait  till  he  was  a  partner — but  I  can't 
wait,  Viola,  if  other  fellows  are  pushing  me  too 
hard. 

VIOLA.  (Rises.)  Uncle  Jack  says  you  are  a 
regular  architect  if  there  ever  was  one. 

CLAY.  It's  what  you  think  that  makes  the  differ 
ence  to  me. 

VIOLA.  Well,  I  think—  (Pause.)— -Uncle  Jack 
certainly  knows. 

CLAY.  And  an  architect's  just  as  good  as  a  law 
yer. 

VIOLA.    Every  bit. 

CLAY.    Viola.     (Takes  her  in  his  arms.) 

VIOLA.  Now — I  don't  mind  tellin'  you — he  was 
speakin'  for  himself — Frank  Hardmuth. 

CLAY.    By  Jove — on  this  very  night. 

VIOLA.    Yes. 

CLAY.  Seems  like  the  Hand  of  Providence  that 
I  was  here.  Let's  sit  down.  (They  sit.)  You've 
got  confidence  in  me,  haven't  you  ? 

VIOLA.  Yes — I've  always  said  to  mother — Clay 
Whipple'll  make  his  mark  some  day — I  should  say 
I  had  confidence  in  you. 

CLAY.  Huh.  (Laughs.)  Of  course  the  big  jobs 
pay.  Things  like  insurance  buildings — but  my 
heart's  in  domestic  architecture — and  if  you  don't 
laugh  at  me,  I'll  tell  you  something. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  29 

VIOLA.  Laugh  at  you — about  your  work  and  your 
ambition !  Why,  Clay ! 

CLAY.  I  do  most  of  the  domestic  interiors  for  the 
firm  already — and  whenever  I  plan  a  second  floor 
or  a  staircase  I  can  see  you  plain  as  day  walkin' 
through  the  rooms — or  saying  good-night  over  the 
banisters. 

VIOLA.  Really?  (CLAY  nods.)  You  mean  in 
your  mind? 

CLAY.  No,  with  my  eyes.  Domestic  architec 
ture's  the  most  poetic  work  a  man  can  get  into  out 
side  of  downright  poetry  itself. 

VIOLA.    It  must  be  if  you  can  see  it  all  that  way. 

CLAY.  Every  room — I  can  see  your  short  sleeves 
as  you  put  your  hands  on  the  banisters — and  some 
times  you  push  up  your  front  hair  with  the  back  of 
your  hand  that  way — (Brushes  his  forehead.) 

VIOLA.  Oh,  this — (repeats  the  gesture) — all  girls 
do  that. 

CLAY.  But  not  just  the  same  way  as  you  do  it. 
Yes,  sir !  I  can  see  every  little  motion  you  make. 

VIOLA.    Whenever  you  care  to  think  about  me. 

CLAY.    Bless  you,  no — that's  the  trouble  of  it. 

VIOLA.    What  trouble? 

CLAY.  The  pictures  of  you — don't  come  just  when 
I  want  them  to  come — and  they  don't  go  when  I 
want  them  to  go — especially  in  the  dark. 

VIOLA.    Why,  how  funny. 

CLAY.  Sometimes  I've  had  to  light  the  gas  in 
order  to  go  to  sleep. 

VIOLA.  Why,  I  never  heard  of  anything  like 
that. 

CLAY.  Well,  it  happens  with  me  often.  I  de 
signed  this  room  for  your  Uncle  Jack — but  before 
I  put  a  brush  in  my  color-box  I  saw  this  very  Gen 
oese  velvet  and  the  picture  frames  in  their  places — 
and  that  Corot  right  there — I've  got  kind  of  a  su 
perstition  about  that  picture. 


30  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

VIOLA.  (Rises.)  A  superstition !  (Regards  the 
Corot.) 

CLAY.  I  said  to  Jack,  have  anything  else  you  want 
on  the  other  walls,  but  right  there  I  want  you  to  put 
a  Corot  that  I've  seen  at  a  dealer's  in  New  York-^ 
and  he  did  it. 

VIOLA.  Uncle  Jack  generally  has  his  own  way 
about  pictures. 

CLAY.  I  only  mean  that  he  approved  my  taste  in 
the  matter — but  my  idea  of  this  house  really  star 
ted  with — and  grew  around  that  canvas  of  Corot's. 

VIOLA.    Then  it  isn't  always  me  that  you  see  ? 

CLAY.  Always  you  when  I  think  about  a  real 
house,  you  bet — a  house  for  me — and  you'll  be  there, 
won't  you?  (Takes  her  in  his  arms.) 

VIOLA.    Will  I? 

CLAY.    Yes— say,  "  I  will." 

VIOLA.    I  will. 

^ 

(Reenter  ALICE  and  HELEN.)' 
ALICE  (astonished).    Viola! 

( VIOLA  goes  left.) 

CLAY.    I've  asked  her — mother. 

ALICE.    Helen,  you  knew  ? 

HELEN.    Yes. 

CLAY.    (To  ALICE.)    And  I  asked  Jack,  too. 

ALICE.    You  mean 

CLAY.    We're  engaged — if  you  say  it's  all  right:. 

ALICE.    And  you — Viola? 

VIOLA,  (nodding).    Yes 

ALICE  (going  to  chair  left  of  table).  Well,  if 
Jack's  been  consulted  and  you  all  know  of  it — I 
should  make  a  very  hopeless  minority. 

CLAY.    Why  any  minority? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  31 

ALICE.  Only  the  necessary  considerations.  (To 
HELEN.)  Clay's  prospects — his  youth. 

VIOLA.  Why,  he  designs  most  of  the  work  for  his 
firm  now. 

CLAY.    That  is,  dwellings. 

HELEN.  I  should  advise  waiting — myself — until 
Clay  is  in  the  firm — (To  CLAY.)  And  I  did  advise 
delay  in  speaking  to  Viola  herself. 

CLAY.  I'd  'a'  waited,  mother,  only  Frank  Hard- 
muth  proposed  to  Viola  to-night! 

ALICE.    To-night  ? 

VIOLA.    At  the  opera. 

ALICE.    One  isn't  safe  anywhere. 

CLAY.  You  wouldn't  want  him !  So  you  do  con 
sent,  don't  you  ? 

ALICE.  I  think  your  mother  and  I  should  talk 
it  over. 

CLAY.  Well,  it's  a  thing  a  fellow  doesn't  usually 
ask  his  mother  to  arrange,  but — (Pause.) 

VIOLA.    You  mean  privately? 

ALICE.     Yes. 

CLAY.  We  can  go  to  the  billiard  room,  I  sup 
pose? 

VIOLA.    Come  on. 

CLAY  (at  the  center  door  with  VIOLA).  You 
know,  mother — how  I  feel  about  it.  (Exit  with 
VIOLA  L.  c.) 

HELEN.  I  supposed  you  had  guessed  it.  (Sits 
right  of  table.) 

ALICE.  I  had — but  when  the  moment  arrives  after 
all,  it's  such  a  surprise  that  a  mother  can't  act 
naturally. 

HELEN.  Clay  is  really  very  trustworthy  for  his 
years. 

ALICE.  There's  only  one  thing  to  discuss.  I 
haven't  mentioned  it  because — well,  because  I've  seen 
so  little  of  you  since  it  began  and  because  the  fault 
is  in  my  own  family. 


32  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HELEN.     Fauk? 

ALICE.  Yes — Jack's  fauk — (Pause.)  Clay  is 
playing. 

HELEN.    You  mean 

ALICE.    Here  with  Jack's  friends. 

HELEN.     Clay  gambling! 

ALICE  (wincing).  I  don't  quite  get  used  to  the 
word,  though  we've  had  a  lifetime  of  it — (sits  left 
of  table) — gambling. 

HELEN.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  Jack  would  do 
that — with  my  boy. 

ALICE.  Jack  hasn't  our  feminine  viewpoint, 
Helen — and,  besides,  Jack  is  calloused  to  it. 

HELEN.  You  should  have  talked  to  Jack  your 
self. 

ALICE.  Talked  to  him  ?  I  did  much  more — that 
is,  as  much  more  as  a  sister  dependent  on  a  brother 
for  support  could  do.  You  know  Jack  really  built 
this  place  for  me  and  Viola. 

HELEN.    I'd  thought  so — yes. 

ALICE.  Viola  is  the  very  core  of  Jack's  heart — 
well,  we  both  left  the  house  and  went  into  our  little 
apartment  and  are  there  now.  A  woman  can't  do 
much  more  than  that  and  still  take  her  living  from 
a  man,  can  she? 

HELEN.    No 

ALICE.    And  it  hurt  him — hurt  him  past  any  idea. 

HELEN.  You  did  that  because  my  Clay  was — 
was  playing  here? 

ALICE.  Not  entirely  Clay — everybody!  (Pause 
— a  distant  burst  of  laughter  comes  from  the  men  in 
the  dining-room.)  There  isn't  a  better-hearted  man 
nor  an  abler  one  in  the  State  than  Jack  Brookfield, 
but  I  had  my  daughter  to  consider.  There  were 
two  nights  under  our  last  city  government  when 
nothing  but  the  influence  of  Frank  Hardmuth  kept 
the  police  from  coming  to  this  house  and  arresting 
everybody — thmk  of  it. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  33 

HELEN.    Dreadful 

ALICE  Now,  that's  something,  Helen,  that 
wouldn't  tell  a  soul  but  you.  Viola  doesn't  know 
it_but  Jack's  card-playing  came  between  you  and 
him  years  ago  and  you — may  know  it.  (Rises  and 
looks  toward  dining-room,)  You  may  even  have 
some  influence  with  Jack. 

HELEN.    I — ah,  no. 

ALICE.  Yes— this  supper  to-night  was  Jack  s  idea 
for  you.  The  box  at  the  opera  for  you. 

HELEN.    Why,  Jack  didn't  even  sit  with  us. 

ALICE.  Also — for  you — Jack  Brookfield  is  a  more 
notable  character  in  Louisville  to-day  than  he  was 
twenty-two  years  agro.  His  company  would  have 
made  you  the  subject  of  unpleasant  comment. 
That's  why  he  left  us  alone  in  the  box. 

HELEN.  Isn't  it  a  pity—a  terrible  pity !  (Laugh 
ter  off  left.  HELEN  rises.} 

(Enter  HARDMUTH,   JACK,   DENNING,   and  LEW. 
HARDMUTH  is  the  aggressive  prosecutor.) 

HARDMUTH.  I  tell  the  gentlemen  we've  left  th'e 
ladies  to  themselves  long  enough,  Mrs.  Campbell. 

ALICE.     Quite  long  enough,  Mr.  Hardmuth. 

DENNING.  Where's  the  young  lady?  Jack's 
niece  ? 

HELEN.    In  the  billiard  room,  I  believe. 

DENNING.  (To  HELEN,  disappointed.)  Oh 
— Jack's  been  telling  us  what  a  great  girl  she  is. 

HARDMUTH.  Some  of  us  knew  that  without  being 
told. 

DENNING.  And  she's  wonderfully  like  you — 
wonderfully. 

HELEN.    You  compliment  me 

JACK.  Are  you  under  the  impression  you're 
Speaking  to  Viola's  mother? 

DENNING.    Ain't  I? 
,     JACK.    This  lady  is  Mrs.  Whipple. 


34  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

DENNING.  Oh,  Clay's  mother?  (HELEN  bows.) 
Well,  your  boy,  Mrs.  Whipple,  plays  in  the  hardest 
luck  of  all  the  people  I  ever  sat  next  to. 

HELEN.    You  mean 

JACK  (interrupting  and  putting  his  arm  about 
DENNING).  You  depreciate  yourself,  Tom.  There's 
no  hard  luck  in  merely  sitting  next  to  you. 

DENNING.     Ha,  ha. 

HELEN.  (To  ALICE.)  I  think  Clay  and  I  should 
be  going. 

JACK  (consulting  his  watch).  Oh,  no — only  a 
little  after  twelve  and  no  one  ever  goes  to  sleep 
here  before  two.  (To  DENNING.)  I  told  you  to 
keep  still  about  card  games. 

DENNING.  I  meant  unlucky  at  billiards.  They're 
all  right,  ain't  they  ? 

JACK.    Oh — (Walks  away  impatiently.) 

DENNING.  Let's  go  and  see  the  young  lady  play 
billiards  with  Clay.  (To  ALICE.)  I  can  see  now 
your  daughter  resembles  you.  (Moves  up  with 
ALICE  toward  door.  LEW  follows.) 

JACK.     Shall  we  join  them? 

HELEN.    I'd  like  it. 

(JACK  and  HELEN  start  up.) 

HARDMUTH.    Jack!    Just  a  minute. 

JACK.    (To  HELEN.)    Excuse  me 

DENNING.  (To  ALICE  as  they  go.)  No,  Kansas 
City's  my  home,  but  I  don't  live  there.  (Exit  with 
ALICE.  ) 

JACK.  Be  right  in,  Lew.  (Exit  HELEN  with 
LEW.)  Well,  Frank 

HARDMUTH.  I  took  advantage  of  your  hospitality, 
old  man,  to-night 

JACK.    Advantage  ? 

HARDMUTH,  Yes — Pve  been  talking  to  your 
niece. 

JACK.    Oh! 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  35 

HARDMUTH.     Proposed  to  her. 

JACK.    Yes 

HARDMUTH.    Yes 

(Enter  Jo  from  downstairs.) 

Jo.  A  gentleman  called  you  on  the  telephone, 
sah. 

JACK.     (Regarding  watch)    Who? 

Jo.  Judge  Brennus — name  sounds  like.  Holdin* 
the  wire,  sah. 

JACK.    I  don't  know  any  Judge  Brennus. 

Jo.  Says  you  don't  know  him,  sah,  but  he's  got 
to  leave  town  in  the  mornin'  and  he'd  be  very  much 
obliged  if  you'd  see  him  to-night. 

JACK.    Did  you  tell  him  we  were  dark  to-night? 

Jo.  He  didn't  want  no  game.  It's  about  a  pic 
ture — a  picture  you've  got. 

JACK.    A  picture  ? 

Jo.    He  wants  to  look  at  it. 

(JACK  looks  at  HARDMUTH.) 

HARDMUTH.    It's  a  blind. 

JACK.  (Consulting  watch)  Well,  this  is  a  good 
night  to  work  a  blind  on  me.  (To  Jo)  Tell  the 
gentleman  I'll  be  up  for  half  an  hour. 

Jo.     Yes,  sah.     (Exit) 

JACK.    So  you  proposed  to  Viola? 

HARDMUTH.    Yes.    How  do  you  feel  about  that? 

JACK.  You  know  the  story  of  the  barkeeper  ask 
ing  the  owner,  "  Is  Grady  good  for  a  drink  ?  " — 
"  Has  he  had  it?  "— "  He  has."—"  He  is." 

HARDMUTH.  Just  that  way,  eh?  (JACK  nods) 
Well — she  hasn't  answered  me. 

JACK.     (Musing)     Mm 

HARDMUTH.  And  under  those  conditions,  how's 
Grady's  credit  with  you  ? 


36  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.     Well,  Frank,  on  any  ordinary  proposi 
tion  you're  aces  with  me.    You  know  that. 

HARDMUTH  (seated  right  of  table).    But  for  the 
girl? 

JACK.    It's  different. 

HARDMUTH.    Why  ? 

JACK.    She's  only  nineteen — you  know. 

HARDMUTH.     My  sister  married  at  eighteen. 

JACK.    I  mean  you're  thirty-five. 

HARDMUTH.    That's  not  an  unusal  difference. 

JACK.  Not  an  impossible  difference,  but  I  think 
unusual — and  rather  unadvisable. 

HARDMUTH.    That's  what  you  think. 

JACK.    That's  what  I  think. 
^  HARDMUTH.    But  suppose  the  lady  is  willing  to 
give   that   handicap?      (Pause — JACK   shrugs    his 
shoulder. )    What  then  ? 

JACK.  Let's  cross  that  bridge  when  we  come 
fo  if. 

HARDMUTH.    You  mean  you'd  still  drag  a  little? 

JACK.  (Pause.)  Do  you  think  Viola  likes  you 
well  enough  to  say  yes? 

HARDMUTH.  Let's  cross  that  bridge  when  we 
come  to  it. 

JACK.  We  have  come  to  that  one,  Frank.  There's 
another  man  in  the  running  and  I  think  she  like's 
him. 

HARDMUTH.  You  mean  young  Whipple  ?  (Rises, 
goes  to  fireplace.)  Well,  he  took  second  money  in 
the  box  party  to-night — at  the  supper  table,  too. 
Ill  agree  to  take  care  of  him  if  you're  with  me. 

JACK  (at  table,  center).  I  think  he's  your  big 
gest  opposition. 

HARDMUTH.  But  you.  Can  I  count  on  you  in 
the  show-down? 

JACK.  (Pause.  Sits  right  of  table.)  If  Viola 
didn't  care  enough  for  you,  Frank,  to  accept  you  in 
spite  of  everything,  I  shouldn't  try  to  influence  her 
in  your  favor. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  37 

(Enter  LEW,  center,  from  left.) 

LEW.  I  think  a  bum  game  of  billiards  is  about 
as  thin  an  entertainment  for  the  outsiders  as  "  Who's 
got  the  buttom." 

HARDMUTH  (meeting  LEW  up  left  center).  I've 
got  a  little  business,  Lew,  with  Jack  for  a  minute. 

LEW.  Well,  I  can  sit  in  by  the  bottle,  can't  I? 
(Moves  toward  dining-room.) 

JACK.    Help  yourself,  Lew. 

LEW.  Such  awful  "  stage  waits  "  while  they  chalk 
their  cues.  (Exit  left.) 

HARDMUTH.  But  you  wouldn't  try  to  influence 
her  against  me. 

JACK.  (Pause.)  She's  about  the  closest  thing 
to  me  there  is — that  niece  of  mine. 

HARDMUTH.     (Pause.)     Well? 

JACK.  I'd  protect  her  happiness  to  the  limit  of 
my  ability. 

HARDMUTH.     If  she  likes  me — or  should  come 
to  like  me—enough— her— happiness  would  be  with 
me,  wouldn't  it?    (Sits  again.) 
JACK.    She  might  think  so. 

HARDMUTH.    Well  ? 

JACK.  But  she'd  be  mistaken.  It  would  be  a 
mistake,  old  chap. 

HARDMUTH.  I  know  twenty  men — twelve  to 
fifteen  years  older  than  their  wives — all  happy — 
wives  happy,  too. 

JACK.    'Tisn't  just  that. 

HARDMUTH.    What  is  it? 

JACK.  She's  a  fine  girl — that  niece  of  mine — not 
a  blemish. 

HARDMUTH.    Well 

JACK.  I  want  to  see  her  get  the  best — the  very 
best — in  family — position — character 

HARDMUTH.  Anything  against  the  Hardmuths? 
(JACK  shakes  head.)  I'm  assistant  district  attorney 
—and  next  trip  I'll  be  the  district  attorney. 


38  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    I  said  character. 

HAKDMUTH.    Character? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HARDMUTH.  You  mean  there's  anything  against 
my  reputation? 

JACK.  No — I  mean  character  pure  and  simple 
— I  mean  the  moral  side  of  you! 

HARDMUTH.    Well,  by  God! 

JACK.  You  see,  I'm  keeping  the  girl  in  mind  all 
the  time. 

HARDMUTH.     My  morals! 

JACK.     Let's  say  your  moral  fiber. 

HARDMUTH.  (Rises)  Well,  for  richness  this 
beats  anything  I've  struck.  Jack  Brookfield  talking 
to  me  about  my  moral  fiber!  (Goes  toward  fire) 

JACK.    You  asked  for  it. 

HARDMUTH.  (Returns  aggressively)  Yes — I 
did,  and  now  I'm  going  to  ask  for  the  show-down 
What  do  you  mean  by  it? 

JACK.  (With  fateful  repression)  I  mean — as 
long  as  you've  called  attention  to  the  "  richness  "  of 
Jack  Brookfield  talking  to  you  on  the  subject — that 
Jack  Brookfield  is  a  professional  gambler — people 
get  from  Jack  Brookfield  just  what  he  promises — a 
square  game.  Do  you  admit  that? 

HARDMUTH.    I  admit  that.    Go  on. 

JACK.  (Rises,  front  of  table)  You're  the  assis 
tant  prosecuting  attorney  for  the  city  of  Louisville ; 
the  people  don't  get  from  you  just  what  you  prom 
ised — not  by  a  jugful 

HARDMUTH.  I'm  the  assistant  prosecuting  at 
torney,  remember — I  promised  to  assist  in  prosecu 
tion,  not  to  institute  it. 

JACK.  I  expect  technical  defense,  old  man,  but 
this  was  to  be  a  show-down. 

HARDMUTH.    Let's  have  it — I  ask  for  particulars. 

JACK.  Here's  one.  You  play  here  in  my  house 
and  you  know  it's  against  the  law  that  you've  sworn 
to  support. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  39 

HARDMUTH.  I'll  support  the  law  whenever  it's 
invoked.  Indict  me  and  I'll  plead  guilty. 

JACK.  This  evasion  is  what  I  mean  by  lack  of 
moral  fiber. 

HARDMUTH.  Perhaps  we're  a  little  shy  some 
where  on  mental  fiber. 

JACK.  You  make  me  say  it,  do  you,  Frank? 
Your  duty,  at  least,  is  to  keep  secret  the  information 
of  your  office ;  contrary  to  that  duty  you've  betrayed 
the  secrets  of  your  office  to  warn  me  and  other  men 
of  this  city  when  their  game  was  in  danger  from  the 
police. 

HARDMUTH.    You  throw  that  up  to  me  ? 

JACK.  (Site  on  left  end  of  table.)  Throw  noth 
ing — you  asked  for  it. 

HARDMUTH.    I  stand  by  my  friends. 

JACK.  Exactly — and  you've  taken  an  oath  to 
stand  by  the  people. 

HARDMUTH.  Do  you  know  any  sure  politician 
that  doesn't  stand  by  his  friends? 

JACK.    Not  one. 

HARDMUTH.    Well,  there! 

JACK.  But,  I  don't  know  any  sure  politician  that 
I'd  tell  my  niece  to  marry. 

HARDMUTH.  That's  a  little  too  fine-haired  for 
me!  (Turns  to  fire.) 

JACK.     I  think  it  is. 

HARDMUTH.  (Returns.)  I'll  bet  you  a  thousand 
dollars  I'm  the  next  prosecuting  attorney  of  this 
city. 

TACK.  I'll  take  half  of  that  if  you  can  place  it. 
I'll  bet  even  money  you're  anything  in  politics  that 
you  go  after  for  the  next  ten  years. 

HARDMUTH.    Then  I  don't  understand  your  kick. 

JACK.  But  I'll  give  odds  that  the  time'll  come 
when  you're  way  up  there — full  of  honor  and  rep 
utation  and  pride — that  somebody'll  drop  to  you, 
Frank,  and  flosh !  You  for  the  down  and  outs. 

HARDMUTH.    Rot ! 


40  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.  It's  the  same  in  every  game  in  the  work! 
— the  crook  either  gets  too  gay  or  gets  too  slow, 
or  both,  and  the  "  come  on  "  sees  him  make  the 
pass.  I've  been  pallbearer  for  three  of  the  slickest 
men  that  ever  shuffled  a  deck  in  Kentucky — just  a 
little  too  slick,  that's  all — and  they've  always  got 
it  when  it  was  hardest  for  the  family. 

HARDMUTH.    So  that'll  be  my  finish,  will  it? 

JACK.    Sure. 

HARDMUTH  (going  back  of  table).  You  like  the 
moral  fiber  of  this  Whipple  kid? 

JACK.    I  don't  know.     (Crosses  to  fireplace.) 

HARDMUTH.    Weak  as  dishwater. 

JACK.    I  don't  think  so. 

HARDMUTH.    I'll  do  him  at  any  game  you  name. 

JACK.    He's  only  a  boy — you  should. 

HARDMUTH.    I'll  do  him  at  this  game. 

JACK.    What  game  ? 

HARDMUTH.  The  girl !  I  thought  I  could  count 
on  you  because — well,  for  the  very  tips  you  hold 
against  me;  but  you're  only  her  uncle,  old  man, 
after  all.  (Swaggers  down  right.) 

JACK.    That's  all. 

HARDMUTH.    And  if  she  says  "  yes  " 

JACK.  (Comes  to  front  of  table.  Pause.  THe 
men  confront  each  other.)  Frank!  Some  day  the 
truth'll  come  out — as  to  who  murdered  the  gover 
nor-elect  of  this  State. 

HARDMUTH.    Is  there  any  doubt  about  that? 

JACK.    Isn't  there? 

HARDMUTH.  The  man  who  fired  that  shot's  in 
jail. 

JACK.    I  don't  want  my  niece  mixed  up  in  it. 

HARDMUTH  (angrily).  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?  (Enter  HELEN,  center.  An  awkward  pause.) 
The  young  people  still  playing  ? 

HELEN.     Yes. 

HARDMUTH.    I'll  look  'em  over.     {Exit.) 

HELEN.    Won't  you  come,  too? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  41 

JACK.    I'd  rather  stay  here  with  you. 
HELEN.     That  gentleman  that  called  after  sup- 
per- 


JACK.    Mr.  Denning  - 

HELEN.    Yes.    He  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  an 
noying  Clay—  — 

JACK.     (Seriously).    Yes  —  I  know  that  side  of 
Denning!    (Goes  to  door  of  dining-room)    Lew! 

LEW.    Yes. 

JACK.    I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  billiard  room  and 
look  after  Tom  Denning. 

LEW.     (Entering  left)    What's  he  doing? 
(JACK  turns  to  HELEN.) 

HELEN.     (To  JACK)     Commenting  humorously 
—  hiding  the  chalk  and  so  on. 

LEW.    (As  he  goes  up)    Lit  up  a  little  I  suppose. 
JACK.    (Nodding)    Just  "  ride  herd  "  on  him. 


HELEN.  (Going  left  to  sofa)  He  doesn't  seem 
much  of  a  gentleman,  this  Mr.  Denning. 

JACK.    He  wasn't  expected  to-night. 

HELEN.    Is  he  one  of  your  "  clients  "  ? 

JACK.     (Smiling)    One  of  my  "  clients." 

HELEN.    Clay  meets  him  here? 

JACK.    Yes  —  has  met  him  here. 

HELEN.  I  didn't  think  you'd  do  that  —  Jack  — 
with  my  boy. 

JACK.    Do  what? 

HELEN.    Gamble. 

JACK.  (Smiling)  It's  no  gamble  with  your  boy, 
Helen  —  sure  thing.  He  hasn't  won  a  dollar  ! 

HELEN.    I'm  glad  you're  able  to  smile  over  it. 

JACK.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  humorous  to 
you  if  he'd  won. 


42  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HELEN.  If  he  plays — I'd  rather  see  him  win, 
of  course. 

JACK.  (Beside  sofa.)  That's  what  put  me  in 
the  business — winning.  The  thing  that  makes  every 
gambler  stick  to  it  is  winning  occasionally.  I've 
never  let  your  boy  get  up  from  the  table  a  dollar 
to  the  good  and  because  he  was  your  boy. 

HELEN.    Why  let  him  play  at  all? 

JACK.  He'll  play  somewhere  till  he  gets  sick  of 
it — or  marries. 

HELEN.    Will  marriage  cure  it  ? 

JACK.  It  would  have  cured  me — but  you  didn't 
see  it  that  way. 

HELEN.    You  made  your  choice. 

JACK.  I  asked  you  to  trust  me — you  wanted  some 
ironclad  pledge — well,  my  dear  Helen — that  wasn't 
the  best  way  to  handle  a  fellow  of  spirit.  (Goes 
front  of  table.) 

HELEN.    So  you  chose  the  better  way? 

JACK.    No  choice — I  stood  pat — that's  all. 

HELEN.    And  wasted  your  life. 

JACK  (sitting  on  edge  of  table).  That  depends  on 
how  you  look  at  it.  You  married  a  doctor  who 
wore  himself  out  in  the  Philadelphia  hospitals.  I've 
had  three  meals  a  day — and  this  place — and — a 
pretty  fat  farm  and  a  stable  with  some  good  blood 
in  it — and 

HELEN  (coming  to  him).  And  every  one  of  them, 
Jack,  is  a  monument  to  the  worst  side  of  you. 

JACK.  (Stands  and  takes  her  hands;  he  smiles.) 
Prejudice,  my  dear  Helen.  You  might  say  that  if 
I'd  earned  these  things  in  some  respectable  business 
combination  that  starved  out  all  its  little  competi 
tors — but  I've  simply  furnished  a  fairly  expensive 
entertainment — to  eminent  citizens — looking  for  rest. 

HELEN.  I  know  all  the  arguments  of  your — pro 
fession — Jack,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  answer  them 
any  more  than  I  answer  the  arguments  of  reckless 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  43 

women  who  claim  that  they  are  more  commendable 
than  their  sisters  who  make  loveless  marriages. 

JACK.  (Goes  to  chair,  right.)  I'm  not  flattered 
by  the  implied  comparsion — still 

HELEN.  I  only  feel  sure  that  anything  which  the 
majority  of  good  people  condemn  is  wrong.  (Sits 
left  of  table.) 

JACK.     (Sits  right  of  table.)     I'm  sorry 

HELEN.  I'd  be  glad  if  you  meant  that — but  you're 
not  sorry. 

JACK.  I  am  sorry — I'm  sorry  not  to  have  public 
respect — as  long  as  you  think  it's  valuable.  . 

HELEN.    I  amuse  you — don't  I? 

JACK  (elbows  on  knees).  Not  a  little  bit — but 
you  make  me  blue  as  the  devil,  if  that's  any  satis 
faction. 

HELEN.  I'd  be  glad  to  make  you  blue  as  the  devil, 
Jack,  if  it  meant  discontent  with  what  you're  doing 
— if  it  could  make  you  do  better. 

JACK.  I'm  a  pretty  old  leopard  to  get  nervous 
about  my  spots. 

HELEN.    Why  are  you  blue? 

JACK.    You. 

HELEN.    In  what  way? 

JACK.  1  had  hoped  that  twenty  years  of  charit 
able  deeds  had  made  you  also  charitable  in  your 
judgment. 

HELEN.     1  hope  it  has. 

JACK.    Don't  seem  to  ease  up  on  my  specialty. 

HELEN.  You  called  your  conduct  "wild  oats" 
twenty  years  ago. 

JACK.  It  was— but  I  found  such  an  excellent 
market  for  my  wild  oats  that  I  had  to  stay  in  that 
branch  of  the  grain  business.  Besides,  it  has  been 
partly  your  fault,  you  know. 

(HELEN  plays  with  the  ivory  paper-knife,  balanc 
ing  it  on  the  front  edge  of  table.) 


44  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HELEN.    Mine? 

JACK.  Your  throwing  me  over  for  my  wild  oats 
— put  it  up  to  me  to  prove  that  they  were  a  better 
thing  than  you  thought. 

HELEN.    Well — having  demonsrated  that 

JACK.    Here  we  are 

HELEN.    Yes — here  we  are. 

JACK.  Back  in  the  old  town.  Don't  you  thinK 
it  would  be  rather  a  pretty  finish,  Helen,  if  despite 
all  my — my  leopard's  spots — and  despite  that — 
(pause) — that  Philadelphia  episode  of  yours 

HELEN.  You  call  twenty  years  of  marriage  epi 
sodic. 

JACK.  I  call  any  departure  from  the  main  story 
episodic. 

HELEN.    And  the  main  story  is 

TACK.    You  and  I 

HELEN.    Oh 

(Paper-knife  falls  to  floor — JACK  rises  and  picks 
it  up,  stands  w  front  of  table  left  hand  on 
HELENA — his  right  gesticulating  with  paper- 
knife.) 

JACK.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  pretty  finish  if  you  took 
my  hand  and  I  could  walk  right  up  to  the  camera 
and  say,  "  I  told  you  so  " — ?  You  know  I  always 
felt  that  you  were  coming  back. 

HELEN.    Oh,  did  you? 

JACK  (playfully,  and  going  right  center).  Had 
a  candle  Burning  in  the  window  every  night. 

HELEN.    You're  sure  it  wasn't  a  red  light? 

JACK  (remonstrating).  Dear  Helen!  have  some 
poetry  in  your  composition.  Literally  "  red  light " 
of  course — but  the  real  flame  was  here — (hand  on 
breast) — a  flickering  hope  that  somewhere — some 
how — somewhen  I  should  be  at  rest — with  the  proud 
Helen  tKat  loved  and — rode  away. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  45 

HELEN.     (Almost  accusingly)     I — believe — you. 

JACK.    Of  course  you  believe  me. 

HELEN.  You  had  a  way,  Jack — when  you  were 
a  boy  at  college,  of  making  me  write  to  you. 

JACK.    Had  I?    (Goes  back  of  table) 

HELEN.  You  know  you  had;  at  nights — about 
this  hour — I'd  find  it  impossible  to  sleep  until  I'd 
got  up  and  written  to  you — and  two  days  later  I'd 
get  from  you  a  letter  that  had  crossed  mine  on  the 
road.  I  don't  believe  the  word  "  telepathy  "  had 
been  coined  then — but  I  guessed  something  of  the 
force — and  all  these  years,  I've  felt  it — nagging! 
Nagging ! 

JACK.    Nagging? 

HELEN.  Yes — I  could  keep  you  out  of  my 
waking  hours — out  of  my  thought — but  when  I  sur 
rendered  myself  to  sleep  the  call  would  come — and 
I  think  it  was  rather  cowardly  of  you,  really. 

JACK.  (Back  of  table)  I  plead  guilty  to  having 
thought  of  you,  Helen — lots — and  it  was  generally 
when  I  was  alone — late — my — clients  gone.  This 
room 

"  Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed." 

HELEN.    And  as  you  say — here  we  are. 

JACK.  Well,  what  of  my  offer?  Shall  we  say 
to  the  world— "We  told  you  so?"  What  of  my 
picturesque  finish  ? 

HELEN.  You  know  my  ideas— you've  known 
them  twenty-two  years. 

JACK.    No  modification? 

HELEN.    None ! 

JACK.  I'll  be  willing  to  sell  the  tables.  (Points 
above  to  second  floor)  And — well — I  don't  think 
I  could  get  interested  in  this  bridge  game  that  the 


46  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

real  good  people  play — would  you  object  to  a  gentle 
man's  game  of  "  draw  "  now  and  then  ? 

HELEN.  You  called  it  a  gentleman's  game  in  those 
days. 

JACK.    No  leeway  at  all  ? 

HELEN.     No  compromise,  Jack — no 

JACK.  M — (Pause.)  I  trust  you  won't  consider 
my  seeming  hesitation  uncomplimentary  ? 

HELEN.     Not  unprecedented,  at  least. 

JACK.  You  see  it  opens  up  a  new  line  of  thought 
— and — (Passes  his  hand  over  -forehead.) 

HELEN  (rising  in  sympathy).  And  you  have  a 
headache,  too, — it  isn't  kind  I'm  sure. 

(Enter  Jo,  R.  c.) 

JACK.    Oh,  nothing — nothing.     (To  Jo.)     Well? 

Jo.    That  gentleman,  sah,  about  the  picture. 

JACK.    I'll  see  him.     (Exit  Jo.) 

HELEN.    A  caller? 

JACK.  Won't  be  a  minute — don't  go  away,  be 
cause  I  think  we  can  settle  this  question  to-night, 
you  and  I. 

HELEN.  Please  don't  put  me  in  the  light  of  wait 
ing  for  an  answer. 

JACK.  Dear  Helen — we're  both  past  that — aren't 
we?  If  I  can  only  be  sure  that  I  could  be  worthy 
of  you.  I'm  the  one  that's  waiting  for  an  answer 
— from  my  own  weak  character  and  rotten  irresolu 
tion. 

(JACK  goes  with  HELEN  to  door,  center,  kisses  her 
hand.  She  goes;  JACK  retains  her  hand  as  long 
as  possible  and  when  he  lets  it  go,  it  falls 
limply  to  HELENA  side  as  she  disappears.) 

They  say  cards  make  a!  fellow  superstitious. 
(Pause.)  Well — I — guess  they  do 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  47 

(Enter  Jo  and  JUSTICE  PRENTICE.    PRENTICE  wears 
overcoat,  carries  cane  and  silk  hat.) 

JACK.    Judge  de  Brennus? 

PRENTICE  (after  amused  look  at  Jo).  Justice 
Prentice.  (Exit  Jo.) 

JACK.    Oh,  Justice  Prentice!    Good-evening! 

PRENTICE.    You  are  Mr.  Brookfield? 

JACK.    Yes. 

PRENTICE.  I  shouldn't  have  attempted  so  late  a 
call  but  that  a  friend  pointed  you  out  to-night  at  the 
opera,  Mr.  Brookfield,  and  said  that  your  habit 
was — well 

JACK.    Not  to  retire  immediately? 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.     Will  you  be  seated? 

PRENTICE.  I'm  only  passing  through  the  city.  I 
called  to  see  a  Corot  that  I  understand  you  bought 
from  Knoedler. 

JACK.     That's  it. 

PRENTICE.  Oh — thank  you.  (Starts.)  You 
don't  object  to  my  looking  at  it  ? 

JACK.  Not  at  all.  (Touches  button,  light  shows 
on  picture.) 

PRENTICE  (after  regard).  That's  it.  (Pause.) 
I  thought  at  one  time  that  I  would  buy  this  picture. 

JACK.    You  know  it,  then  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes.  (Pause.)  Are  you  particularly 
attached  to  it,  Mr.  Brookfield? 

JACK  (sitting).  I  think  not  irrevocably.  (Takes 
pad  of  paper  and  figures  mechanically.) 

PRENTICE.  Oh.  (Pause,  during  which  the 
JUSTICE  looks  at  the  picture.)  Do  I  understand  that 
is  what  you  paid  for  it,  or  what  you  intend  to  ask  me 
for  it? 

(JACK  starts.) 
JACK.    What? 


48  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.    Sixty-five  hundred. 

JACK  (astonished).    I  didn't  speak  the  price,  did 

PRENTICE.  Didn't  you— oh.  (Pause.)  I  couldn't 
pay  that  amount. 

JACK  (puzzled).    That's  its  price — however. 

PRENTICE.  I  regret  I  didn't  buy  it  from  the 
dealer  when  I  had  my  chance.  (Looks  about  at 
other  pictures  on  back  wall.)  I  couldn't  have  given 
it  so  beautiful  a  setting,  Mr.  Brookfield,  nor  such 
kindred — but  it  would  not  have  been  friendless— 
(At  fireplace.)  That's  a  handsome  marine. 

JACK.    Yes. 

PRENTICE.  Pretty  idea  I  read  recently  in  an 
essay  of  Dr.  Van  Dyke's.  His  pictures  were  for  him 
his  windows  by  which  he  looked  out  from  his  study 
onto  the  world.  (Pause.)  Yes? 

JACK.     Quite  so. 

PRENTICE  (regarding  a  picture  over  dining-room 
door) .  Mm — Washington ! 

JACK  (again  astonished).    What? 

PRENTICE.  My  home  is  Washington — I  thought 
you  asked  me? 

JACK.    No,  I  didn't. 

PRENTICE.    I  beg  your  pardon 

JACK  (front  of  table;  aside).  But  I'm  damned 
if  I  wasn't  just  going  to  ask  him. 

PRENTICE  (mewing  other  pictures).  And  the 
phases  of  your  world,  Mr.  Brookfield,  have  been 
very  prettily  multiplied. 

JACK.  Thank  you — may  I  offer  you  a  cigar? 
(Opens  box  on  table.) 

PRENTICE.    Thank  you,  I  won't  smoke. 

JACK.    Or  a  glass  of  wine? 

PRENTICE.  Nothing.  I'll  return  to  the  hotel- 
first  asking  you  again  to  excuse  my  untimely  call. 

JACK.    I  wish  you'd  sit  down  awhile. 

PRENTICE.  But  I  didn't  know  until  I'd  missed 
it  from  Knoedler's  how  large  a  part  of  my  world 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  49 

— my  dream  world — I  had  been  looking  at  through 
this  frame.  (Regards  the  Corot  again.) 

JACK.  Well,  if  it's  a  sentimental  matter,  Mr. 
Justice,  we  might  talk  it  over. 

PRENTICE.  I  mustn't  submit  the  sentimental  side 
of  it,  Mr.  Brookfield,  and  where  I  have  so — so  in 
truded. 

JACK.  That's  the  big  side  of  anything  for  me— 
the  sentimental. 

PRENTICE.  I'm  sure  of  it— and  I  mustn't  take 
advantage  of  that  knowledge. 

JACK.    You're  sure  of  it? 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.    Is  that  my  reputation? 

PRENTENCE.    I  don't  know  your  reputation. 

JACK.    Then,  how  are  you  sure  of  it? 

PRENTICE  (impressively) .  Oh — I  see  you — and 
— well,  we  have  met. 

JACK.    (Pause)    Ah 

PRENTICE.    Good-night.     (Going  up.) 

JACK.  One  moment.  (Pause.)  You  said  your 
address  was  Washington? 

PRENTICE.     Yes, 

JACK.  You  thought  at  the  time  I  was  about  to 
ask  you  that  question? 

PRENTICE.    I  thought  you  had  asked  it. 

JACK.  And  you  thought  a  moment  before  I  had 
said  sixty-five  hundred  for  the  picture? 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.    Do  you  often — pick  answers  that  way? 

PRENTICE.    Well,  I  think  we  all  do — at  times. 

JACK.    We  all  do? 

PRENTICE.  Yes — but  we  speak  the  answers  only 
as  we  get  older  and  less  attentive  and  mistake  a 
person's  thought  for  his  spoken  word. 

JACK.    A  person's  thought? 

PRENTICE.     Yes. 

JACK.    Do  you  mean  you  know  what  I  think? 

PRENTICE  (returning  to  tafile).    I  hadn't  meant 


50  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

to  claim  any  monopoly  of  that  power.  It's  my  opin 
ion  that  every  one  reads  the  thoughts  of  others — 
that  is,  some  of  the  thoughts. 

JACK.    Every  one? 

PRENTICE.    Oh,  yes. 

JACK.    That  /  do? 

PRENTICE  (regarding  him).  I  should  say  you 
more  generally  than  the  majority  of  men. 

JACK.  There  was  a  woman  said  something  like 
that  to  me  not  ten  minutes  ago. 

PRENTICE.  A  woman  would  be  apt  to  be  con 
scious  of  it. 

JACK.  You  really  believe  that— that  stuff?  (Sits 
left  of  table.) 

PRENTICE.  Oh,  yes — and  I'm  not  a  pioneer  in  the 
belief.  The  men  who  declare  the  stuff  most  stoutly 
are  scientists  who  have  given  it  most  attention. 

JACK.    How  do  they  prove  it  ? 

PRENTICE.  They  don't  prove  it— that  is,  not  uni 
versally.  Each  man  must  do  that  for  himself,  M-. 
Brookfield. 

JACK.    How 

PRENTICE.  (Pause.  Smiles.)  Well,  Til  tell  you 
all  I  know  of  it.  (Becoming  serious.)  Every 
thought  is  active—that  is,  born  of  a  desire— and 
travels  from  us— or  it  is  born  of  the  desire  of  some 
one  else  and  comes  to  us.  We  send  them  out— or 
we  take  them  in— that  is  all. 

JACK.    How  do  we  know  which  we  are  doing? 

PRENTICE.  If  we  are  idle  and  empty-headed,  our 
brains  are  the  playrooms  for  the  thought  of  others 
—frequently  rather  bad.  If  we  are  active,  whether 
benevolently  or  malevolently,  our  brains  are  work 
shops— power-houses.  I  was  passively  regarding 
the  pictures ;  your  active  idea  of  the  price— regis 
tered,  that's  all— so  did  your  wish  to  know  where  I 
was  from. 

JACK.  You  say  "  our  brains  "—do  you  still  in 
clude  mine? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  51 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.  You  said  mine  more  than  the  majority  of 
men's. 

PRENTICE.    I  think  so. 

JACK.  Why  hasn't  this  whatever  it  is — effect — 
happened  to  me,  then  ? 

PRENTICE.    It  has. 

JACK.     (Pause.)    Why  didn't  I  know  it? 

PRENTICE.    Vanity?  Perhaps. 

JACK.    Vanity  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes — often  some — friend  has 
broached  some  independent  subject  and  you  have 
said,  "  I  was  just  about  to  speak  of  that  myself." 

JACK.    Very  often,  but 

PRENTICE.  Believing  the  idea  was  your  own — 
your  vanity  shut  out  the  probably  proper  solution 
— that  it  was  his. 

JACK.  Well,  how,  then,  does  a  man  tell  which 
of  his  thoughts  are  his  own? 

PRENTICE.  It's  difficult.  Most  of  his  idle  ones 
are  not.  When  we  drift  we  are  with  the  current. 
To  go  against  it  or  to  make  even  an  eddy  of  our 
own  we  must  swim — Most  everything  less  than 
that  is  hopeless. 

JACK  (smiling).  Well — I  haven't  been  exactly 
helpless. 

PRENTICE.  No  one  would  call  you  so,  Mr.  Brook- 
field.  (Going^.)  You  have  a  strong  psychic — a 
strong  hypnotic  ability. 

JACK  (smiling).    You  think  so? 

PRENTICE.    I  know  it. 

JACK.  This  business?  (Makes  slight  pass  after 
manner  of  the  professional  hypnotist.) 

PRENTICE  (smiling).  That  business  for  the  be 
ginner,  yes 

JACK.  You  mean  that  I  could  hypnotize  any 
body? 

PRENTICE.  Many  persons — yes — but  I  wouldn't 
do  it  if  I  were  you 


52  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    Why  not  ? 

PRENTICE.    Grave  responsibility. 

JACK.    In  what  way  ? 

PRENTICE.  (Pause.  Smiles.)  I'll  send  you  a 
book  about  it — if  I  may. 

JACK.    Instructions  ? 

PRENTICE.  And  cautions — yes — (Goes  up  to  pic 
ture  again.)  If  you  tire  of  your  Corot,  I'd  be  glad 
to  hear  from  you. 

JACK.  Why  couldn't  I  save  postage  by  just  think 
ing  another  price? 

PRENTICE.  The  laws  on  contracts  haven't  yet  rec 
ognized  that  form  of  tender. 

(Enter  TOM,  L.  center.    He  laughs  and  shows  signs 
of  drink.) 

TOM.  I  say,  Jack — here's  the  greatest  joke  you 
ever  saw — (Sees  the  JUSTICE.)  Oh,  excuse  me. 

(Enter  LEW,  following.) 

LEW.  That  won't  do,  Tom.— (To  JACK.)  Ex 
cuse  me,  Jack,  but  I  had  to  get  him  out  of  there. 

JACK.  I'll  go  downstairs  with  you,  Mr.  Justice. 
(Exit  with  the  JUSTICE.) 

TOM.    Who's  that  old  bird? 

LEW.  You'll  offend  Jack  if  you're  not  careful, 
Tom.  You've  got  half  a  jag  now. 

TOM.  J'  ever  see  anything's  as  funny  as  that? 
He  don't  like  my  scarf-pin — ha,  ha — well,  I  don't  like 
it-r-but  my  valet  put  it  on  me  and  what's  differ 
ence 

(Enter  L.  HARDMUTH.) 

HARDMUTH.    What  was  that? 
TOM.    My  scarf-pin!  ,. 

HARDMUTH.    Scarf-pin  ? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  53 

TOM.  Yes — he  pushed  me  away  from  him  and  I 
said  "  what's  matter."  He  said  "  I  don't  like  your 
scarf-pin  "—ha,  ha— I  said  "don't?  I  don't  like 
your  face." 

LEW.    Very  impolite  with  the  ladies  there. 

HARDMUTH.  Why  should  he  criticize  Tom's 
scarf-pin  ? 

TOM.  'Zactly.  I  said  "  I  can  change  my  scarf- 
pin — but  I  don't  like  your  face." 

(Enter  CLAY  from  dining-room  excitedly.) 

CLAY.    Where's  Jack? 

LEW.  Saying  good-night  to  some  old  gentleman 
below. 

TOM  (interposing  as  CLAY  starts  up  left  center). 
And  I  don't  like  your  face. 

CLAY.  That's  all  right,  Mr.  Denning.  (Tries  to 
pass.)  Excuse  me. 

TOM  (with  scarf-pin  in  hand).  Excuse  me. 
What's  the  matter  with  that  scarf-pin? 

CLAY.  It's  a  cat's-eye  and  I  don't  like  them,  that's 
all — I  don't  like  to  look  at  them. 

LEW.    Let  him  alone,  Tom. 

TOM.  Damn  'fee  ain't  scared  of  it,  ha,  ha! 
(Pushing  pin  in  front  of  CLAY'S  face.) 

CLAY  (greatly  excited).    Don't  do  that. 

HARDMUTH  (sneering).  T  won't  bite  you,  will 
it? 

CLAY.    (Averts  his  face.)    Go  away,  I  tell  you. 

TOM.  (Holds  CLAY  with  left  hand.  Has  pin  in 
right.)  'T  will  bite  him — bow — wow — wow 

CLAY.    Don't,  I  tell  you— don't. 

TOM  (still  holding  him).    Bow— wow— wow •. 

LEW.    Tom ! 

HARDMUTH   (laughing).    Let  them  alone. 

CLAY.    Go  away. 

TOM.    Bow — wow 


54  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

'(Enter  JACK.) 

JACK.    What's  the  matter  here? 
TOM  (pursuing  CLAY).    Wow 

'(CLAY  in  frenzy  swings  the  large  ivory  paper-knife, 
from  table,  blindly  strikes  TOM,  who  falls.) 

JACK.    Clay ! 

CLAY  (horrified).  He  pushed  that  horrible  cat's- 
eye  right  against  my  face. 

JACK.    What  cat's-eye? 

HARDMUTH.  (Picks  up  the  pin  which  DENNING 
has  dropped.)  Only  playing  with  him — a  scarf- 
pin. 

LEW  (kneeling  by  DENNING).    He's  out,  Jack. 

(Enter  Jo.) 

CLAY.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  him ;  really  I  didn't 
mean  that. 

HARDMUTH  (taking  the  paper-knife  from  CLAY). 
The  hell  you  didn't.  You  could  kill  a  bull  with  that 
ivory  tusk. 

JACK.  Put  him  on  the  window  seat — give  him 
some  air. 

_^          (Enter  ALICE,  left  center.) 
ALICE.    Jack,  we're  going  now — all  of  us. 
(Enter  HARVEY  L.) 

JACK  (turning  to  ALICE).  Wait  a  minute  (To 
Jo.)  Help  Mr.  Ellinger  there. 

(Jo.,  LEW,  owe?  HARVEY  carry  off  TOM  into  the 
dining-room.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  55 

ALICE.    What  is  it? 

JACK.  An  accident — keep  Helen  and  Viola  out  of 
these  rooms. 

ALICE.    Hadn't  we  better  go?    Clay  is  with  us. 

CLAY.  I  can't  go  just  now,  Mrs.  Campbell — 
(Looks  off.)  I  hope  it  isn't  serious — I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  him,  really.  (Exit  left.) 

ALICE.    A  quarrel? 

(LEW  enters  and  waves  hand,  meaning  "All  over") 
HARDMUTH  (with  paper-knife).    A  murder! 

(Enter  HELEN  and  Viola.) 
VIOLA.    What's  the  matter? 

(Enter  CLAY.) 

CLAY  (in  panic  and  up  right  center.  To  HELEN). 
Oh,  mother,  I've  killed  him. 

HELEN  (taking  CLAY  in  her  arms).  Killed  him 
— whom  ? 

HARDMUTH.    Tom  Denning. 

CLAY.  But  I  never  meant  it — Jack ;  I  just  struck 
— struck  wild. 

HARDMUTH.    With  this. 

HELEN.    With  that !    Oh,  my  boy ! 

JACK.  That  will  do !  Everybody — Lew,  telephone 
Dr.  Monroe  it's  an  emergency  case  and  to  come  in 
dressing-gown  and  slippers.  (Exit  LEW,  right 
'center.)  Alice,  I  know  you're  not  afraid  of  a  sick 
man— or— that  sort  of  thing.  Help  me  and  Jo. 
(Leads  ALICE,  left.  She  braces  herself.)  Viola, 
you  take  Mrs.  Whipple  upstairs  and  wait  there. 

HARDMUTH  (starting  up  right).  I'll  notify  the 
police. 

HELEN.    Oh! 


56  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK  (interposing).  Stop!  You'll  stay  just 
where  you  are! 

HARDMUTH.    You  tryin'  to  hide  this  thing? 

JACK.  The  doctor'll  tell  us  exactly  what  this 
thing  is.  And  then  the  boy'll  have  the  credit  himself 
of  notifying  the  police. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II 

SCENE  —  The   library-living    room    of   JUSTICE 
PRENTICE,  Washington,  D.  C. 

The  walls  of  this  room  are  bookcases  glassed  quite 
to  the  ceiling,  and  filled  with  books  mostly  in  sheep 
skin  binding.  This  array  is  broken  by  a  large  bay 
window  at  the  back,  center,  which  is  equipped  with 
a  window  seat,  and  by  two  doors  near  the  front  of 
the  stage,  one  on  the  right  and  one  on  the  left. 

At  the  left  is  also  a  fireplace  with  a  log  fire.  In 
the  upper  left-hand  corner  of  the  room  there  is  a 
buffet,  fitted  with  glasses  and  decanters.  A  dark  rug 
is  on  the  floor. 

The  furniture  of  the  room  is  dark  oak  in  Gothic. 
It  consists  of  a  table  and  three  chairs  at  the  center, 
sofa,  and  smaller  table  up  right.  The  smaller  table 
holds  a  lamp. 

Over  the  buffet  there  is  a  small  canvas  by 
Rousseau  showing  a  sunset. 

JUSTICE  PRENTICE  and  JUDGE  HENDERSON  are 
playing  chess. 

HENDERSON.    Checkmate  in  three  moves. 
PRENTICE.    I  don't  see  that. 

HENDERSON.    Well,  Knight  to 

PRENTICE.    Yes,  yes,  I  see.    Checkmate  in  three 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  57 

moves.  That's  one  game  each.  Shall  we  play  an 
other  ? 

HENDERSON.  Let  us  look  at  the  enemy.  (Draws 
watch.)  By  Jove!  Quarter  of  twelve.  I  guess 
Mrs.  Henderson  will  be  expecting  me  soon. 
(Pause.)  I'll  play  a  rubber  with  you,  and  its  result 
shall  decide  your  position  on  the  Whipple  case. 

PRENTICE.  Why,  Mr.  Justice,  I'm  surprised  at 
you.  A  United  States  Supreme  Court  decision — 
shaped  by  a  game  of  chess.  We'll  be  down  to  the 
level  of  intelligent  jurymen  soon — flipping  pennies 
for  the  verdict. 

HENDERSON.  And  a  very  good  method  in  just 
such  cases  as  this.  Well,  if  you  won't  play — (rises) 
— I'll  have  to  go. 

PRENTICE.    (Rises.)    Not  without  another  toddy. 

HENDERSON.    Yes. 

PRENTICE  (at  sideboard  up  left).  Oh,  no.  Come, 
now,  don't  you  like  this  liquor  ? 

HENDERSON.  Immensely.  Where  did  you  say 
you  got  it  ? 

PRENTICE.    Kentucky.    One  lump? 

HENDERSON.    Only  one ! 

PRENTICE.  My  old  home,  sir, — and  a  bit  of 
lemon  ? 

HENDERSON.    A  piece  of  the  peel — yes. 

PRENTICE.    They  make  it  there. 

HENDERSON.    I'll  pour  the  water.    (Pours.) 

PRENTICE.    There,  there,  don't  drown  me. 

HENDERSON.  My  folks  were  Baptists,  you  see. 
What  do  you  say  it  costs  you  ? 

PRENTICE.    Fifty  cents  a  gallon. 

HENDERSON.  What!!  I  think  I'll  take  water. 
(Puts  down  glass.) 

PRENTICE.  That's  what  it  cost  me.  Its  value  I 
don't  know.  An  old  friend  sends  it  to  me.  Fifty 
cents  for  express. 

HENDERSON.    Oh ! 

PRENTICE.    That's  different,  isn't  it? 


58  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HENDERSON.    (Recovers  glass.)    Very! 

PRENTICE.  He  makes  it  down  there.  Why,  it's 
in  the  same  county  in  which  this  Whipple  murder 
occurred. 

HENDERSON.  How  about  that  point?  We  might 
as  well  admit  it  and  remand  t'-ie  case. 

PRENTICE.  No.  There  's  no  constitutional  point 
involved. 

HENDERSON.    A  man  's  entitled  to  an  open  trial. 

PRENTICE.    Well,  Whipple  had  it. 

HENDERSON.  No,  he  didn't.  They  wouldn't  ad 
mit  the  public. 

PRENTICE.  Oh,  come,  now;  the  court-room  was 
crowded  and  the  Judge  refused  admission  to  others 
— only  when  there  was  danger  of  the  floor  breaking. 

HENDERSON.  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Justice,  that 
would  have  been  all  right  to  limit  the  attendance  — 

PRENTICE.    Well,  that  's  all  he  did. 

HENDERSON.  Only  he  did  it  by  having  the  sheriff 
issue  tickets  of  admission.  That  placed  the  atten 
dance  entirely  in  the  control  of  the  prosecution  and 
the  defense  is  right  in  asking  a  rehearing. 

PRENTICE.  Oh,  nonsense!  Justice  is  a  little  too 
slow  in  my  old  State  and  I'm  impatient  with  technical 
delays.  It  is  two  years  since  they  openly  assassinated 
the  governor-elect  and  the  guilty  man  is  still  at  large. 

HENDERSON.  Why  should  the  killing  of  Scovill 
bear  on  this  case ! 

PRENVICE.  It  bears  on  me.  I  'm  concerned  for 
the  fair  1  me  of  Kentucky. 

HENDERSON.  Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,  and 
there  's  an  end  of  it.  (Rings  call  bell.) 

PRENTICE.    Have  another? 

HENDERSON.  Not  another  drop.  (Enter  SER 
VANT.)  Get  my  coat! 

PRENTICE.   A  nightcap. 

SERVANT.    I  beg  pardon,  sir. 

PRENTICE.    Speaking  to  the  Justice. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  59 

(Exit  SERVANT.) 

HENDERSON.  No,  I  must  n't.  Mrs.  Henderson 
filed  her  protest  against  my  coming  home  loaded 
and  I  've  got  to  be  moderate. 

PRENTICE.    Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't. 

HENDERSON  (front  of  table,  picks  up  book). 
Hello !  Reading  the  Scriptures  in  your  old  age  ? 

PRENTICE.  It  does  look  like  a  Bible,  does  n't  it? 
That  's  a  flexible  binding  I  had  put  on  a  copy  of 
Bret  Harte.  I  admire  him  very  much. 

HENDERSON.    I  like  some  of  his  stuff. 

PRENTICE.  When  I  get  home  from  the  Capitol 
and  you  prosy  lawyers,  I  'm  too  tired  to  read  Brown 
ing  and  those  heavy  guns,  so  I  take  Bret  Harte  — 
very  clever,  I  think ;  I  was  reading  before  you  came 
—  (takes  book) — "A  Newport  Romance."  Do 
you  know  it  ? 

HENDERSON.    I  don't  think  I  do. 

PRENTICE.  It 's  about  an  old  house  at  Newport  — 
that  's  haunted  —  a  young  girl  in  the  colonial  days 
died  of  a  broken  heart  in  this  house,  it  seems.  Her 
sweetheart  sailed  away  and  left  her  —  and  here  *s 
the  way  Bret  Harte  tells  of  her  coming  back. 
(HENDERSON  sits.)  Oh,  I  'm  not  going  to  read  all 
of  it  to  you  —  only  one  verse.  (Looks  at  book.  — 
Pause.)  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  when  this 
chap  left  the  girl  he  gave  her  a  little  bouquet  —  un 
derstand?  That  's  a  piece  of  material  evidence 
necessary  to  this  summing  up.  (HENDERSON  nods. 
PRENTICE  reads. ) 

"And  ever  since  then  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 
And  the  air  is  filled,  that  she  passes  through, 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead-and-gone  bouquet, 


60  THE  WITCHING  HOUR* 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story ;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ?  " 

Isn't  that  charming,  eh  ? 

HENDERSON.    A  very  pretty  idea. 

PRENTICE.  Beautiful  to  have  a  perfume  suggest: 
her.  I  suppose  it  appeals  to  me  especially  because  I 
used  to  know  a  girl  who  was  foolishly  fond  of 
mignonette. 

HENDERSON.  Well,  you  don't  believe  in  that  stuff, 
do  you  ? 

PRENTICE.   What  stuff? 

HENDERSON.  That  Bret  Harte  stuff  —  the  dead 
coming  back  —  ghosts  and  so  forth  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes,  in  one  way  I  do.  I  find  as  I  get 
older,  Judge,  that  the  things  of  memory  become  more 
real  every  day  —  every  day.  Why,  there  are  com 
panions  of  my  boyhood  that  I  haven't  thought  of  for 
years  —  that  seem  to  come  about  me  —  more 
tangible,  or  as  much  so  as  they  were  in  life. 

HENDERSON.  JVell,  how  do  you  account  for  that  ? 
Spiritualism  ? 

PRENTICE.    Oh,  no.    It's  Time's  perspective. 

HENDERSON.    Time's  perspective  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes.  (Pause.)  I'll  have  to  illustrate 
my  meaning.  (Indicates  a  painting.)  Here's  a 
sunset  by  Rousseau.  I  bought  it  in  Paris  last  sum 
mer.  Do  you  see  what  an  immense  stretch  of  land 
there  is  in  if? 

HENDERSON.    Yes. 

PRENTICE.  A  bird's-eye  view  of  that  would  re 
quire  a  chart  reaching  to  the  ceiling.  But  see  Rous 
seau's  perspective.  The  horizon  line  isn't  two  inches 
from  the  base. 

HENDERSON.    Well  ? 

PRENTICE.  (Returns  to  table.)  Well,  my  dear 
Judge,  that  is  the  magic  in  the  perspective  of  Time. 
My  boyhood's  horizon  is  very  near  to  my  old  eyes 
now.  The  dimmer  they  grow,  the  nearer  it  comes, 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  61 

until  I  think  sometimes  that  when  we  are  through 
with  it  all — we  go  out  almost  as  we  entered — little 
children. 

HENDERSON.  (Pause.)  That's  a  very  beautiful 
painting,  Judge  —  a  Russell,  you  say  ? 

PRENTICE.    A  Rousseau. 

HENDERSON.    Oh 

PRENTICE.  Yes  —  cost  me  three  thousand  only, 
and  a  funny  thing  about  it:  the  canvas  just  fitted 
into  the  top  of  my  steamer  trunk,  and  it  came 
through  the  custom-house  without  a  cent  of  duty.  I 
completely  forgot  it. 

HENDERSON.  Your  memory  isn't  so  retentive, 
then,  as  it  seems  ? 

PRENTICE.  Not  on  those  commercial  matters. 
(Enter  SERVANT  with  coat.  In  crossing  front  of 
table  to  HENDERSON,  the  coat  knocks  a  miniature 
from  the  table  to  the  floor)  You  dropped  your 
tobacco-box,  I  guess,  Mr.  Justice. 

HENDERSON.    (Examines  pocket.)    No. 

SERVANT.  (Picks  up  miniature.)  It  was  this 
picture,  sir. 

PRENTICE.  My  gracious  —  my  gracious!  It 
might  have  been  broken. 

SERVANT.  Oh,  it  often  falls  when  I'm  dusting, 
sir. 

PRENTICE.  Oh,  does  it?  Well,  I'll  put  it  away. 
(Exit  SERVANT.)  An  ivory  miniature  by  Wimar. 
I  prize  it  highly  —  old-fashioned  portrait,  see! 
Gold  back. 

HENDERSON.    A  beautiful  face. 

PRENTICE  (eagerly).  Isn't  it?  Isn't  it?  (Looks 
over  HENDERSON'S  shoulder.) 

HENDERSON.  Very.  What  a  peculiar  way  of 
combing  the  hair  —  long,  and  over  the  ears. 

PRENTICE.  The  only  becoming  way  women  ever 
wore  their  hair.  I  think  the  scrambly  style  they 
have  now  is  disgraceful. 

HENDERSON.    Your  mother? 


62  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.  Dear,  no,  a  young  girl  I  used  to  know. 
Oh,  don't  smile,  she's  been  dead  a  good  thirty  years 
—  married  and  had  a  large  family. 

HENDERSON.    Very  sweet  —  very  sweet,  indeed. 

PRENTICE.    Isn't  it?    (Enter  SERVANT.)    Well? 

SERVANT.    Card,  sir. 

PRENTICE.    Gentleman  here?    (Takes  card.) 

SERVANT.    Yes,  sir. 

PRENTICE.    I'll  see  him.    (Exit  SERVANT.) 

HENDERSON.    Call  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes.  The  man  owns  a  picture  that 
I've  been  trying  to  buy  —  a  Corot. 

HENDERSON.  Oh  —  another  of  these  perspective 
fellows? 

PRENTICE.  Yes  —  his  call  doesn't  surprise  me, 
for  he's  been  in  my  mind  all  day. 

HENDERSON.  Seems  to  be  in  a  hurry  for  the 
money  —  coming  at  midnight. 

PRENTICE.  I  set  him  the  example  —  besides,  mid 
night  is  just  the  shank  of  the  evening  for  Mr.  Brook- 
fTeld.  He's  supposed  to  be  a  sporting  man  —  ahem. 
(Enter  SERVANT  and  JACK,  JACK  is  paler  and  less 
physical  than  in  first  act)  Good-evening. 

JACK.    You  remember  me,  Mr.  Justice  ? 

PRENTICE.  Perfectly,  Mr.  Brookfield  —  this  is 
Justice  Henderson. 

HENDERSON.    Mr.  Brookfield. 

JACK.  Pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Justice.  (To 
PRENTICE.)  I  hope  I'm  not  intruding. 

HENDERSON.  I'm  just  going,  Mr.  Brookfield. 
(To  PRENTICE.)  To-morow? 

PRENTICE.    To-morrow ! 

HENDERSON,  (at  door,  inquiringly).  No  con 
stitutional  point  about  it  ?  Eh  ? 

PRENTICE.    None. 

HENDERSON.    Good-night. 

PRENTICE.  Good-night.  (To  JACK.)  Have  a 
chair. 

JACK.  Thank  you.  (Stands  by  chair  left  of 
table.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  63 

PRENTICE  (toward  buffet).  I've  some  medicine 
here  that  comes  directly  from  your  city. 

JACK.    I  don't  think  I  will — if  you'll  excuse  me. 

PRENTICE.  Ah — (Pause.  Smiles.)  Well,  have 
you  brought  the  picture  ? 

JACK.  The  picture  is  still  in  Louisville  —  I  —  I'm 
in  Washington  with  my  niece. 

PRENTICE.    Yes  ? 

JACK.  And  —  a  lady  friend  of  hers.  They're 
very  anxious  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Justice. 

PRENTICE.  Ah.  (Pause.)  Well  —  I  go  to  the 
Capitol  at  noon  to-morrow  and  — 

JACK.  To-night !  — They're  leaving  the  city  to 
morrow  —  as  you  were  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  you. 

PRENTICE.    I  remember. 

JACK  (with  watch).  They  were  to  come  after 
me  in  five  minutes  if  I  didn't  return ;  and  those  five 
minutes,  Mr.  Justice,  I  hoped  you  would  give  to  me. 

PRENTICE.    With  pleasure.    (Sits  right  of  table.) 

JACK  (plunging  at  once  into  his  subject).  Those 
two  books  you  sent  me  — 

PRENTICE.    Yes  ? 

JACK.  I  want  to  thank  you  for  them  again  — 
and  to  ask  you  how  far  you  go  —  with  the  men  that 
wrote  them  —  especially  the  second  one.  Do  you 
believe  that  book  ? 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.    You  do? 

PRENTICE.  I  do.  I  know  the  man  who  wrote  it  — 
and  I  believe  him. 

JACK.  Did  he  ever  do  any  of  his  stunts  for  you 
—  that  he  writes  about  ? 

PRENTICE.  He  didn't  call  them  "  stunts,"  but  he 
has  given  me  many  demonstrations  of  his  ability  — 
and  mine. 

JACK.    For  example? 

PRENTICE.  For  example  ?  He  asked  me  to  think 
of  him  steadily  at  some  unexpected  time,  and  to  think 


64  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

of  some  definite  thing.  A  few  days  later — this 
room — two  o'clock  in  the  morning — I  concentrated 
my  thoughts — I  mentally  pictured  him  going  to  his 
telephone  and  calling  me. 

JACK.    And  did  he  do  it? 

PRENTICE.  No — (pause) — but  he  came  here  at 
my  breakfast  hour  and  told  me  that  at  two  o'clock 
he  had  waked  and  risen  from  his  bed — and  walked 
to  his  'phone  in  the  hallway  with  an  impulse  to  call 
me — and  then  had  stopped — because  he  had  no  mes 
sage  to  deliver  and  because  he  thought  his  imagi 
nation  might  be  tricking  him. 

JACK.  You  hadn't  given  him  any  tip,  such  as  ask 
ing  how  he'd  slept  ? 

PRENTICE.  None.  Five  nights  after  that  I  re 
peated  the  experiment. 

JACK.    Well? 

PRENTICE.    That  time  he  called  me. 

JACK.    What  did  he  say  ? 

PRENTICE.  He  said,  "  Old  man,  you  ought  to  be 
in  bed  asleep;  and  not  disturbing  honest  citizens," 
which  was  quite  true. 

JACK.  By  Jove,  it's  a  devilish  creepy  business, 
isn't  it? 

PRENTICE.    Yes. 

JACK.    And  if  it's  so 

PRENTICE.    And  it  is  so. 

JACK.  Pay  a  man  to  be  careful  what  he  thinks — 
eh? 

PRENTICE.  It  will  very  well  pay  your  type  of 
man  to  do  so. 

JACK.  I  don't  want  to  be  possessed  by  any  of 
these  bughouse  theories ;  but  I'll  be  blamed  if  a  few 
things  haven't  happened  to  me,  Mr.  Justice,  since 
you  started  me  on  this  subject. 

PRENTICE.    Along  this  line? 

JACK.  Yes.  (Pause)  And  I've  tried  the  other 
side  of  it,  too. 

PRENTICE.    What  other  side? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  65 

JACK.  The  mesmeric  business.  (Pause.  Makes 
passes.)  I  can  do  it. 

PRENTICE.  Then  I  should  say,  Mr.  Brookfield, 
that  for  you  the  obligation  for  clean  and  unselfish 
thinking  was  doubly  imperative. 

JACK.  Within  this  last  year  I've  put  people — 
well— practically  asleep  in  a  chair  and  I've  made 
them  tell  me  what  a  boy  was  doing — a  mile  away — 
in  a  jail. 

PRENTICE.  I  see  no  reason  to  call  clairvoyance  a 
"  bughouse  "  theory. 

JACK.    I  only  know  that  I  do  it. 

PRENTICE.  Yes — you  have  the  youth  for  it — 
the  glorious  strength.  Does  it  make  any  demand  on 
your  vitality  ? 

JACK.  (Passes  hand  over  his  eyes.)  I've  fancied 
that  a  headache  to  which  I'm  subject  is  more  fre 
quent — that's  all. 

PRENTICE.  But  you  find  the  ability  —  the  power 
— -  increases  —  don't  you  ? 

JACK.  Yes  —  in  the  last  month  I've  put  a  man 
into  a  hypnotic  sleep  with  half  a  dozen  waves  of  the 
hand.  (Makes  pass.) 

PRENTICE.    Why  any  motion  ? 

JACK.    Fixes  his  attention,  I  suppose. 

PRENTICE  (shaking  head) .  Fixes  your  attention. 
When  in  your  own  mind  your  belief  is  sufficiently 
trained,  you  won't  need  this.  (Another  slight  pass.) 

JACK.    I  won't  ? 

PRENTICE.    No. 

JACK.    What'll  I  do? 

PRENTICE.  Simply  think.  (Pause.)  You  have  a 
headache,  for  example. 

JACK.  I  have  a  headache  for  a  fact.  (  JACK  again 
passes  hand  over  eyes  and  forehead) 

PRENTICE.  Well  —  some  persons  could  cure  it  by 
rubbing  your  forehead. 

JACK.    I  know  that. 

PRENTICE.    Others  could  cure  it  by  the  passes  of 


66  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

the  hypnotist.  Others  by  simply  willing  that  it 
should — (Pause) — be  cured. 

JACK.  Well,  that's  where  I  can't  follow  you — 
and  your  friend  the  author. 

PRENTICE.    You  simply  think  your  headache. 

JACK.    I  know  it  aches. 

PRENTICE.    I  think  it  doesn't. 

JACK.     (Astonished)    What? 

PRENTICE.    I — think — it  doesn't. 

JACK.  (Pause)  Well,  just  this  moment,  it 
doesn't  but — (Pause) — isn't  that — simply  mental 
excitement — won't  it  come  back? 

PRENTICE.    It  won't  come  back  to-day. 

JACK.  That's  some  comfort.  The  blamed  things 
have  made  it  busy  for  me  since  I've  been  studying 
this  business. 

PRENTICE.    It  is  a  two-edged  sword 

JACK.    You  mean  it's  bad  for  a  man  who  tries  it? 

PRENTICE.  I  mean  that  it  constantly  opens  to  the 
investigator  new  mental  heights,  higher  planes — 
and  every  man,  Mr.  Brookfield,  is  ill  in  some  man 
ner  who  lives  habitually  on  a  lower  level — than  the 
light  he  sees. 

(Enter  SERVANT.) 

SERVANT.  Two  ladies,  sir. 
PRENTICE.  Your  friends? 
JACK.  I  think  so. 

(PRENTICE  and  JACK  look  at  SERVANT.) 

SERVANT.    Yes,  sir. 
PRENTICE.    Ask  them  up. 

(Exit  SERVANT.) 
JACK.    Thank  you. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  67 

PRENTICE.  (Rises.)  I'll  put  away  Judge  Hen 
derson's  glass. 

JACK.    They're  Kentucky  ladies,  Mr.  Justice. 

PRENTICE  (indicating  JACK).  But  I  don't  want 
any  credit  for  a  hospitality  I  haven't  earned. 

JACK.    I  see. 

(Enter  SERVANT  with  HELEN  and  VIOLA.) 

JACK.    My  niece,  Miss  Campbell. 
PRENTICE.     Miss  Campbell. 

JACK.    And 

HELEN.  One  moment,  Jack ;  I  prefer  to  introduce 
myself. 

PRENTICE.    Won't  you  be  seated,  ladies? 

(Exit  SERVANT.    HELEN  sits  right  of  table.    VIOLA 
goes  to  the  window-seat.    JACK  stands  up  center. ) 

HELEN.  You  are  not  a  married  man,  Justice 
Prentice  ? 

PRENTICE.    I  am  not. 

HELEN.  But  you  have  the  reputation  of  being  a 
very  charitable  one. 

PRENTICE.  (Sits  left  of  table.)  That's  pleasant 
to  hear — what  charity  do  you  represent  ? 

HELEN.  None.  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  my 
object. 

PRENTICE.    It's  a  personal  matter,  is  it  ? 

JACK  (back  of  table.)  Yes,  a  very  personal  mat 
ter. 

PRENTICE.    Ah ! 

HELEN.    I  have  here  an  autograph  book — 

PRENTICE.  (To  JACK.)  I  usually  sign  my  au 
tograph  for  those  who  wish  it — at  the 

HELEN.  I  did  not  come  for  an  autograph,  Jus 
tice  Prentice;  I  have  brought  one. 

PRENTICE.  Well,  I  don't  go  in  for  that  kind  of 
thing  very  much.  I  have  no  collection — my  taste 
runs  more  toward 


68  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HELEN.  The  autograph  I  have  brought  is  one  of 
yours,  written  many  years  ago.  It  is  signed  to  a  let 
ter.  Will  you  look  at  it  ?  (  Opens  an  autograph  book 
and  gives  small  folded  and  old  lace  handkerchief 
from  book  to  VIOLA,  who  joins  her. ) 

PRENTICE.  With  pleasure.  (Takes  book.)  Is 
this  the  letter?  Ah—  (Reads.)  "June  15,  1860." 
Dear  me,  that's  a  long  time  ago.  (Reads.)  "My 
dear  Margaret,  the  matter  passed  satisfactorily — 
A  mere  scratch.  Boland  apologized. — Jim."  What 
is  this? 

HELEN.    A  letter  from  you. 

PRENTICE.  And  my  dear  Margaret — 1860.  Why, 
this  letter — was  it  written  to  Margaret? 

HELEN.    To  Margaret  Price 

PRENTICE.  Is  it  possible — well — well.  (Pause.) 
I  wonder  if  what  we  call  coincidences  are  ever  mere 
coincidences.  Margaret  Price!  Her  name  was  on 
my  lips  a  moment  ago. 

JACK.    Really,  Mr.  Justice? 

PRENTICE.  (To  JACK.)  Yes.  Did  you  know 
Margaret  Price  ? 

JACK.  Yes.  (Looks  at  HELEN — PRENTICE'S  gaze 
follows.) 

HELEN.    She  was  my  mother 

PRENTICE.    Margaret  Price  was 

HELEN.    Was  my  mother. 

PRENTICE.  Why,  I  was  just  speaking  of  her  to 
Justice  Henderson  whom  you  saw  go  out.  Her  pic 
ture  dropped  from  the  table  here.  (Gets  it.)  This 
miniature,  Margaret  Price  gave  it  to  me  herself. 
And  you  are  her  daughter  ? 

HELEN.    Yes,  Justice  Prentice. 

PRENTICE.  Yes,  I  can  see  the  likeness.  At 
twenty  you  must  have  looked  very  like  this  minia 
ture.  (Passes  miniature  to  HELEN.) 

HELEN  (as  JACK  and  VIOLA  look  at  miniature). 
I  have  photographs  of  myself  that  are  very  like 
this.  (To  PRENTICE.)  And  you  were  speaking  of 
her  just  now. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  69 

PRENTICE.  Not  five  minutes  ago. — But  be  seated, 
please.  ( VIOLA  sits  again  at  window.)  I'm  very 
delighted  to  have  you  call. 

HELEN.    Even  at  such  an  hour? 

PRENTICE.  At  any  hour.  Margaret  Price  was  a 
very  dear  friend  of  mine ;  and  to  think,  you're  her 
daughter.  And  this  letter  1860 — what's  this  ? 

HELEN.  Oh,  don't  touch  that.  It  will  break.  It's 
only  a  dry  spray  of  mignonette,  pinned  to  the  note 
when  you  sent  it. 

PRENTICE     (musingly).    A  spray  of  mignonette. 

HELEN.  My  mother's  favorite  flower,  and  per 
fume. 

PRENTICE.  I  remember.  Well,  well,  this  is 
equally  astonishing. 

JACK.    Do  you  remember  the  letter,  Mr.  Justtice  ? 

PRENTICE.    Perfectly 

JACK.    And  the  circumstances  it  alludes  to? 

PRENTICE.  Yes.  It  was  the  work  of  a  romantic 
boy.  I — I  was  very  fond  of  your  mother,  Mrs. — by 
the  way,  you  haven't  told  me  your  name. 

HELEN.  Never  mind  that  now.  Let  me  be  Mar 
garet  Price's  daughter  for  the  present. 

PRENTICE.  Very  well.  Oh,  this  was  a  little 
scratch  of  a  duel — they've  gone  out  of  fashion  now, 
I'm  thankful  to  say. 

HELEN.    Do  you  remember  the  cause  of  this  one  ? 

PRENTICE.  Yes ;  Henry  Boland  had  worried  Mar 
garet  some  way.  She  was  frightened,  I  think,  and 
fainted. 

HELEN.     And  you  struck  him? 

PRENTICE.    Yes,  and  he  challenged  me. 

HELEN.  I've  heard  mother  tell  it.  Do  you  re 
member  what  frightened  her? 

PRENTICE.  I  don't  believe  I  do.  Does  the  letter 
say? 

HELEN.    No.    Try  to  think. 

PRENTICE.    Was  it  a  snake  or  a  toad  ? 

HELEN.    No— a  jewel. 


70  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.  A  jewel?  I  remember  now — a — a— 
cat's-eye.  A  cat's-eye  jewel,  wasn't  it? 

HELEN  (with  excitement).  Yes,  yes,  yes. 
(Weeping.) 

PRENTICE.  My  dear  madam,  it  seems  to  be  a  very 
emotional  subject  with  you. 

HELEN.  It  is.  I've  hoped  so  you  would  remem 
ber  it.  On  the  cars  I  was  praying  all  the  way  you 
would  remember  it.  And  you  do — you  do. 

PRENTICE.    I  do. 

VIOLA.  (Comes  to  HELEN.)  Compose  yourself, 
dear.  Remember  what  depends  on  it. 

PRENTICE.  It  is  evidently  something  in  which  I 
can  aid  you. 

HELEN.    It  is — and  you  will  ? 

PRENTICE.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for 
a  daughter  of  Margaret  Price.  You  are  in  mourn 
ing,  dear  lady ;  is  it  for  your  mother  ? 

HELEN.    For  my  son. 

PRENTICE.  (To  JACK.)  How  long  has  he  been 
dead? 

HELEN.  He  is  not  dead.  Justice  Prentice,  my 
boy — the  grandson  of  Margaret  Price — is  under  a 
sentence  of  death. 

PRENTICE.    Sentence  of  death  ? 

HELEN.  Yes.  I  am  the  mother  of  Clay  Whip- 
pie 

PRENTICE    (Rises).    But,  madam 

HELEN.    He  is  to  die.    I  come 

PRENTICE.  (Retreats  towards  second  door.) 
Stop !  You  forget  yourself.  The  case  of  Whipple 
is  before  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States. 
I  am  a  member  of  that  body — I  cannot  listen  to  you. 

HELEN.    You  must. 

PRENTICE.  You  are  prejudicing  his  chances.  (To 
JACK.)  You  are  making  it  necessary  for  me  to  rule 
against  him.  (To  HELEN.)  My  dear  madam,  for 
the  sake  of  your  boy,  do  not  do  this.  It  is  unlawful 
— without  dignity  or  precedent.  (To  JACK.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  7* 

If  the  lady  were  not  the  mother  of  the  boy 
I  should  call  your  conduct  base 

VIOLA.    But  she  is  his  mother. 

HELEN  (following).  And  Justice  Prentice,  I  am 
the  daughter  of  the  woman  you  loved. 

PRENTICE.    I  beg  you  to  be  silent. 

JACK.    Won't  you  hear  us  a  moment  ? 

PRENTICE.  I  cannot.  I  dare  not— I  must 'leave 
you.  (  Going. ) 

VIOLA.    Why? 

PRENTICE.  I  have  explained — the  matter  is  be 
fore  the  court.  For  me  to  hear  you  would  be  cor 
rupt. 

HELEN.  I  won't  talk  of  the  question  before  your 
court.  That  our  attorneys  tell  us,  is  a  constitu 
tional  point. 

PRENTICE.    That  is  its  attitude. 

HELEN.  I  will  not  talk  of  that.  I  wish  to  speak 
of  this  letter. 

JACK.  You  can  listen  to  that,  can't  you,  Mr.  Jus 
tice? 

PRENTICE.  Do  you  hope  for  its  influence  indi 
rectly  ? 

HELEN.  No ;  sit  down,  Justice  Prentice,  and  com 
pose  yourself.  I  will  talk  calmly  to  you. 

PRENTICE.  My  dear  madam,  my  heart  bleeds 
for  you.  (To  JACK.)  Her  agony  must  be  past  ju 
dicial  measurement. 

JACK.    Only  God  knows,  sir ! 

(HELEN  sits  at  table;  VIOLA  stands  by  her  side* 
PRENTICE  sits  by  the  fire;  JACK  remains  stand 
ing.) 

HELEN.    (Pause.)    Justice  Prentice. 

PRENTICE.    Mrs.  Whipple. 

HELEN.  You  remember  this  letter — you  have 
recalled  the  duel.  You  remember — thank  God — its 
cause? 

PRENTICE.    I  do. 


72  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HELEN.  You  know  that  my  mother's  aversion  to 
that  jewel  amounted  almost  to  an  insanity? 

PRENTICE.    I  remember  that. 

HELEN.  I  inherited  that  aversion.  When  a  child, 
the  sight  of  one  of  them  would  throw  me  almost  into 
convulsions. 

PRENTICE.    Is  it  possible? 

HELEN.  It  is  true.  The  physicians  said  I  would 
outgrow  the  susceptibility,  and  in  a  measure  I  did  so. 
But  I  discovered  that  Clay  had  inherited  the  fatal 
dislike  from  me. 

JACK.    You  can  understand  that,  Mr.  Justice? 

PRENTICE.  Medical  jurisprudence  is  full  of  such 
cases.  Why  should  we  deny  them  ?  Is  nature  faith 
ful  only  in  physical  matters  ?  You  are  like  this  por 
trait.  Your  voice  is  that  of  Margaret  Price. 
Nature's  behest  should  have  also  embraced  some  of 
the  less  apparent  possessions,  I  think. 

JACK.  We  urged  all  that  at  the  trial,  but  they 
called  it  invention. 

PRENTICE.    Nothing  seems  more  probable  to  me. 

HELEN.  Clay,  my  boy,  had  that  dreadful  and 
unreasonable  fear  of  the  jewel.  I  protected  him  as 
far  as  possible,  but  one  night  over  a  year  ago,  some 
men — companions — finding  that  the  sight  of  this 
stone  annoyed  him,  pressed  it  upon  his  attention. 
He  did  not  know,  Justice  Prentice,  he  was  not  re 
sponsible.  It  was  insanity,  but  he  struck  his  tor 
mentor  and  the  blow  resulted  in  the  young  man's 
death. 

PRENTICE.    Terrible — terrible ! 

HELEN.  My  poor  boy  is  crushed  with  the  awful 
deed.  He  is  not  a  murderer.  He  was  never  that, 
but  they  have  sentenced  him,  Justice  Prentice — he — 
is  to  die.  (Rises  impulsively.) 

JACK  (catching  her).  Now — now — my  dear 
Helen,  compose  yourself. 

VIOLA  (embracing  her).    You  promised. 

HELEN.  Yes,  yes,  I  will.  (  VIOL  A  leads  HELEN 
aside. ) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  73 

PRENTICE.  All  this  was  ably  presented  to  the  trial 
court,  you  say? 

JACK.    By  the  best  attorneys. 

PRENTICE.    And  the  verdict  ? 

JACK.  Still  was  guilty.  But,  Mr.  Justice,  the 
sentiment  of  the  community  has  changed  very  much 
since  then.  We  feel  that  a  new  trial  would  result 
differently. 

HELEN.  When  our  lawyers  decided  to  go  to  the 
Supreme  Court,  I  remembered  some  letters  of  yours 
in  this  old  book.  Can  you  imagine  my  joy  when  I 
found  the  letter  was  on  the  very  point  of  this  in 
herited  trait  on  which  we  rested  our  defense? 

JACK.  We  have  ridden  twenty-four  hours  to 
reach  you.  The  train  came  in  only  at  ten  o'clock. 

HELEN.  You — you  are  not  powerless  to  help  me. 
What  is  an  official  duty  to  a  mother's  love  ?  To  the 
life  of  her  boy  ? 

PRENTICE.  My  dear,  dear  madam,  that  is  not 
necessary — believe  me.  This  letter  comes  very  prop 
erly  under  the  head  of  new  evidence.  (To  JACK.) 
The  defendant  is  entitled  to  a  rehearing  on  that. 

HELEN.    Justice  Prentice!    Justice  Prentice! 
(Turns  again  to  VIOLA.) 

VIOLA.     There — there — (Comforts  HELEN.) 

PRENTICE.  Of  course  that  isn't  before  us,  but 
when  we  remand  the  case  on  this  constitutional 
point 

HELEN.    Then  you  will — you  will  remand  it? 

PRENTICE  (prevaricating).  Justice  Henderson 
had  convinced  me  on  the  point  as  you  called.  So  I 
think  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  decision. 

HELEN.  You  can  never  know  the  light  you  let 
into  my  heart. 

(VIOLA  returns  lace  handkerchief  to  book  which 
HELEN  opens  for  the  purpose,  closing  it  again 
on  handkerchief.) 


74  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.  What  is  that  perfume?  Have  you 
one  about  you  ? 

HELEN.    Yes,  on  this  handkerchief. 

PRENTICE.    What  is  it? 

HELEN.    Mignonette. 

PRENTICE.    Mignonette. 

HELEN.  A  favorite  perfume  of  mother's.  This 
handkerchief  of  hers  was  in  the  book  with  the  let 
ter. 

PRENTICE.    Indeed, 

HELEN.  Oh,  Justice  Prentice,  do  you  think  I 
can  save  my  boy  ? 

PRENTICE.  (To  JACK.)  On  the  rehearing  I  will 
take  pleasure  in  testifying  as  to  this  hereditary  aver 
sion — and  what  I  knew  of  its  existence  in  Margaret 
Price. 

JACK.    May  I  tell  the  lawyers  so  ? 

PRENTICE.  No.  They  will  learn  it  in  the  court 
to-morrow.  They  can  stand  the  suspense.  I  am 
speaking  comfort  to  the  mother's  heart. 

HELEN.    Comfort.    It  is  life ! 

PRENTICE.  (To  JACK.)  Say  nothing  of  this  call, 
if  you  please.  Nothing  to  anyone. 

JACK.  We  shall  respect  your  instructions,  Mr. 
Justice.  My  niece,  who  has  been  with  Mrs.  Whipple 
during  this  trouble,  is  the  fiancee  of  the  boy  who  is 
in  jail. 

PRENTICE.    You  have  my  sympathy,  too,  my  dear. 

VIOLA.  Thank  you.  (Goes  to  PRENTICE  and 
gives  him  her  hand,) 

PRENTICE.    And  now  good-night. 

VIOLA.  Good-night.  (Goes  to  door  where  JACK 
joins  her.) 

HELEN.  Good-night,  Justice  Prentice.  You  must 
know  my  gratitude — words  cannot  tell  it. 

(Exit  VIOLA.) 

PRENTICE.    Would  you  do  me  a  favor? 
HELEN.     Can  you  ask  it?     (JACK  waits  at  the 
door.\ 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  75 

PRENTICE.  If  that  was  the  handkerchief  of  Mar 
garet  Price,  I'd  like  to  have  it. 

(With  a  moment's  effort  at  self-control,  HELEN 
gives  PRENTICE  the  handkerchief.  She  does 
not  dare  to  speak,  but  turns  to  JACK  who  leads 
her  out.  PRENTICE  goes  to  the  table  anl  takes 
up  the  miniature.  A  distant  bell  strikes  two.) 

PRENTICE.  Margaret  Price.  People  will  say  that 
she  has  been  in  her  grave  thirty  years,  but  I'll  swear 
her  spirit  was  in  this  room  to-night  and  directed  a 
decision  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States. 
(Noticing  the  handkerciehf  which  he  holds,  he  puts 
it  to  his  lips.) 

"  The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 
The  ghost  of  a  dead-and-gone  bouquet, 
Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story ;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ?  " 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE  : — Same  as  Act  L 

JACK  in  chair  R.  of  table  with  elbows  on  knees 
apparently  in  deep  thought. 

(Enter  HARVEY,  left.) 

HARVEY.    Mars  Jack. 

JACK.    Well,  Uncle  Harvey? 

HARVEY.  'Scuse  me,  sah,  when  you  wants  to  be 
alone,  but  Tse  awful  anxious,  myself.  Is  dey  any 
word  from  the  court-house  ? 

JACK.    None,  Uncle  Harvey. 


76  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HARVEY.  'Cause  Jo  said  Missus  Campbell  done 
come  in,  an*  I  thought  she'd  been  to  the  trial,  you 
know. 

JACK.  She  has.  You're  not  keeping  anything 
from  me,  Uncle  Harvey. 

HARVEY.  'Deed,  no,  sah.  Ah  jes'  like  to  ask  you, 
Mars  Jack,  if  I'd  better  have  de  cook  fix  sumpun'  to 
eat — maybe  de  other  ladies  comin'  too? 

JACK.  Yes,  Uncle  Harvey,  but  whether  they'll 
want  to  eat  or  not'll  depend  on  what  word  comes 
back  with  the  jury. 

HARVEY.    Yes,  sah.     (Exit  left.) 

(Enter  ALICE,  right  center.) 

ALICE  (in  astonishment  and  reproach).  Jack 

(She  comes  down  left.) 

JACK.    Well 

ALICE.    Why  are  you  here? 

JACK.    Well — I  live  here. 

ALICE.  But  I  thought  you'd  gone  to  Helen  and 
Viola. 

JACK.    No. 

ALICE.  You  should  do  so,  Jack.  Think  of  them 
alone  when  that  jury  returns — as  it  may  at  any  mo 
ment — with  its  verdict. 

JACK.  The  lawyers  are  there  and  Lew  Ellinger 
is  with  them. 

ALICE.    But  Helen — Helen  needs  you. 

JACK.    I  may  be  useful  here. 

ALICE.    How  ? 

JACK.  There's  one  man  on  that  jury  that  I  think 
is  a  friend. 

ALICE.   One  man  ? 

JACK.    Yes. 

ALICE.    Out  of  a  jury  of  twelve. 

JACK.  One  man  can  stop  the  other  eleven  from 
bringing  in  an  adverse  verdict — and  this  one  is  with 
us. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  77 

ALICE.  Would  your  going  to  Helen  and  Viola 
in  the  court-house  stop  his  being  with  us? 

JACK.  Perhaps  not,  but  it  would  stop  my  being 
with  him. 

ALICE.  What?  (Looks  about.)  I  don't  under 
stand  you. 

JACK.  Justice  Prentice  told  me  that  he  could  sft 
alone  in  his  room  and  make  another  man  get  up  and 
walk  to  the  telephone  and  call  him  by  simply  think 
ing  steadily  of  that  other  man. 

ALICE.     Superstitious  people  imagine  anything 

JACK.  Imagine  much — yes — but  this  isn't  imag 
ination. 

ALICE.    It's  worse — Jack.    I  call  it  spiritualism. 

JACK.  Call  it  anything  you  like — spiritualism — or 
socialism —  or  rheumatism — it's  there.  I  know  noth 
ing  about  it  scientifically,  but  I've  tried  it  on  and  it 
works,  my  dear  Alice,  it  works. 

ALICE.    You've  tried  it  on? 

JACK.    Yes. 

ALICE.    With  whom? 

JACK.    With  you. 

ALICE.    I  don't  know  it  if  you  have. 

JACK.    That  is  one  phase  of  its  terrible  subtlety. 

ALICE.    When  did  you  try  it  on  ? 

JACK  (inquiringly).  That  night,  a  month  ago, 
when  you  rapped  at  my  door  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  asked  if  I  was  ill  in  any  way. 

ALICE.    I  was  simply  nervous  about  you. 

JACK.  Call  it  "  nervousness  "  if  you  wish  to — 
but  that  was  an  experiment  of  mine — a  simple  ex 
periment. 

ALICE.    Oh! 

JACK.  Two  Sundays  ago  you  went  up  to  the 
church  door — hesitated,  and  turned  home  again. 

ALICE.    Lots  of  people  do  that. 

JACK.  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  stock  in  it,  but  that 
was  another  experiment  of  mine.  The  thing  appeals 
to  me.  I  can't  help  Helen  by  being  at  the  court- 


78  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

house,  but,  as  I'm  alive  and  my  name's  Jack  Brook- 
field,  I  do  believe  that  my  thought  reaches  that  par 
ticular  juryman. 

ALICE.    That's  lunacy,  Jack,  dear. 

JACK.  (Rises  and  walks.)  Well,  call  it  "lun 
acy."  I  don't  insist  on  "  rheumatism." 

ALICE.  Oh,  Jack,  the  boy's  life  is  in  the  balance. 
Bitter  vindictive  lawyers  are  prosecuting  him,  and 
I  don't  like  my  big  strong  brother,  who  us :  1  to  meet 
men  and  all  danger  face  to  face,  treating  the  situa 
tion  with  silly  mind-cure  methods — hidden  alone  in 
his  rooms.  I  don't  like  it. 

JACK.  You  can't  acquit  a  boy  of  murder  by  hav 
ing  a  strong  brother  thrash  somebody  in  the  court- 
room;  If  there  was  anything  under  the  sun  I  could 
do  with  my  physical  strength,  I'd  do  it;  but  there 
isn't.  Now,  why  not  try  this?  Why  not,  if  I  be 
lieve  I  can  influence  a  juryman  by  my  thought, — 
why  not  try  ? 

(ALICE  turns  away.    Enter  Jo,  right  center.) 

JACK.    Well? 

Jo.    Mistah  Hardmuth. 

ALICE  (astonished).    Frank  Hardmuth? 

Jo.    Yes. 

JACK.  Here's  one  of  the  "  bitter  vindictive " 
men  you  want  me  to  meet  face  to  face.  You  stay 
here  while  I  go  and  do  it.  (Starts  up.) 

(Enter  HARDMUTH.) 

HARDMUTH.    Excuse  me,  but  I  can't  wait  in  an 

anteroom. 

JACK.    That'll  do,  Jo.    (Exit  Jo.) 
HARDMUTH.    I  want  to  see  you  alone. 

JACK.     (To  ALICE)     Yes 

ALICE  (going).    What  do  you  think  it  is? 

JACK.     Nothing  to  worry  over.     (Conducts  her 

to  door  left.    Exit  ALICE.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  79 

HARDMUTH.     (threateningly)     Jack  Brookfield. 

JACK.    Well  ?    ( Confronts  HARDMUTH.  ) 

HARDMUTH.  I've  just  seen  Harvey  Fisher — of 
the  Courier. 

JACK.    Yet;. 

HARDMUTH.  He  says  you've  hinted  at  something 
associating  me  with  the  shooting  of  Scovill. 

JACK.    Right. 

HARDMUTH.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

JACK.  I  mean,  Frank  Hardmuth,  that  you  shan't 
hound  this  boy  to  the  gallows  without  reckoning 
with  me  and  the  things  I  know  of  you. 

HARDMUTH.  I'm  doing  my  duty  as  a  prosecuting 
attorney. 

JACK.  You  are,  and  a  great  deal  more — you're 
venting  a  personal  hatred. 

HARDMUTH.  That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  this 
insinuation  you've  handed  to  a  newspaper  man,  an 
insinuation  for  which  anybody  ought  to  kill  you. 

JACK.  I  don't  deal  in  "  insinuations."  It  was  a 
charge. 

HARDMUTH.    A  statement? 

JACK.  A  charge!  You  understand  English — a 
specific  and  categorical  charge. 

HARDMUTH.    That  I  knew  Scovill  was  to  be  shot. 

JACK.  That  you  knew  it  ?  No.  That  you  planned 
it  and  arranged  and  procured  his  assassination. 

HARDMUTH  (in  low  ione).  If  the  newspapers 
print  that,  I'll  kill  you — damn  you,  I'll  kill  you. 

JACK.  I  don't  doubt  your  willingness.  And  they'll 
print  it — if  they  haven't  done  so  already — and  if 
they  don't  print  it,  by  God,  I'll  print  it  myself  and 
paste  it  on  the  fences. 

HARDMUTH  (weakening.)  What  have  I  ever  done 
to  you,  Jack  Brookfield,  except  to  be  your  friend? 

JACK.  You've  been  much  too  friendly.  With  this 
murder  on  your  conscience,  you  proposed  to  take  to 
yourself,  as  wife,  my  niece,  dear  to  me  as  my  life. 
As  revenge  for  her  refusal  and  mine,  you've  perse- 


8o  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

cuted  through  two  trials  the  boy  she  loved,  and  the 
son  of  the  woman  whose  thought  regulates  the  pulse 
of  my  heart,  an  innocent,  unfortunate  boy.  In  your 
ambition  you've  reached  out  to  be  the  governor  of 
this  State,  and  an  honored  political  party  is  seriously 
considering  you  for  that  office  to-day. 

HARDMUTH.  That  Scovill  story's  a  lie — a  political 
lie.  I  think  you  mean  to  be  honest,  Jack  Brookfield, 
but  somebody's  strung  you. 

JACK.  Wait !  The  man  that's  now  hiding  in  In 
diana — a  fugitive  from  your  feeble  efforts  at  ex 
tradition — sat  upstairs  drunk  and  desperate — his 
last  dollar  on  a  case  card.  I  pitied  him.  If  a  priest 
had  been  there  he  couldn't  have  purged  his  soul 
cleaner  than  poor  Raynor  gave  it  to  me.  If  he  put 
me  on,  am  I  strung  ? 

HARDMUTH  (frightened.)  Yes,  you  are.  I  can't 
tell  you  why,  because  this  jury  is  out  and  may  come 
in  any  moment  and  I've  got  to  be  there,  but  I  can 
square  it.  So  help  me  God,  I  can  square  it. 

JACK.    You'll  have  to  square  it. 

(Enter  ALICE,  left,  followed  by  PRENTICE.) 

ALICE     Jack.    (Indicates  PRENTICE.) 

PRENTICE.    Excuse  me,  I 

HARDMUTH.    Oh — Justice  Prentice. 

JACK.    Mr.  Hardmuth — the  State's  attorney. 

PRENTICE.  I  recognize  Mr.  Hardmuth.  I  didn't 
salute  him  because  I  resent  his  disrespectful  treat 
ment  of  myself  during  his  cross-examination. 

HARDMUTH.  Entirely  within  my  rights  as  a  law 
yer  and 

PRENTICE.  Entirely — and  never  within  the  op 
portunities  of  a  gentleman. 

HARDMUTH.  Your  side  foresaw  the  powerful 
effect  on  a  local  jury  of  any  testimony  by  a  member 
of  the  Supreme  Court,  and  my  wish  to  break  that — 

PRENTICE.     Was  quite  apparent,  sir, — quite  ap- 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR,  81 

parent, — but  the  testimony  of  every  man  is  entitled 
to  just  such  weight  and  consideration  as  that  man's 
character  commands.  But  it  is  not  that  disrespect 
which  I  resent.  I  am  an  old  man — That  I  am  un 
married — childless — without  a  son  to  inherit  the 
vigor  that  time  has  reclaimed,  is  due  to — a  sentiment 
that  you  endeavored  to  ridicule,  Mr.  Hardmuth,  a 
sentiment  which  would  have  been  sacred  in  the 
hands  of  any  true  Kentuckian,  which  I  am  glad  to 
hear  you  are  not. 

JACK.    That's  all. 

HARDMUTH.     Perhaps  not.     (Exit.) 

PRENTICE.  My  dear  Mr.  Brookfield,  that  man 
certainly  hasn't  seen  this  newspaper  ? 

JACK.    No — but  he  knows  it's  coming. 

PRENTICE.  When  I  urged  you  as  a  citizen  to  tell 
anything  you  knew  of  the  man,  I  hadn't  expected  a 
capital  charge. 

ALICE.    What  is  it,  Jack, — what  have  you  said  ? 

JACK.  (To  ALICE.  Hands  paper.)  All  in  the 
headlines — read  it.  (To  PRENTICE.)  That  enough 
for  your  purpose,  Justice  Prentice  ? 

PRENTICE.  I  never  dreamed  of  an  attack  of  that 
— that  magnitude — Enough! 

ALICE.    Why — why  did  you  do  this,  Jack  ? 

JACK.  Because  I'm  your  big  strong  brother — and 
I  had  the  information. 

PRENTICE.  It  was  necessary,  Mrs.  Campbell, — 
necessary. 

ALICE.    Why  necessary  ? 

JACK.  My  poor  sister,  you  don't  think.  If  that 
jury  brings  in  a  verdict  of  guilty — what  then  ? 

ALICE.    What  then?    I  don't  know. 

JACK.    An  appeal  to  the  governor— for  clemency. 

ALICE.    Well? 

JACK.  Then  we  delay  things  until  a  new  governor 
comes  in.  But  suppose  that  new  governor  is  Hard 
muth  himself. 

ALICE.  How  can  the  new  governor  be  Hard 
muth? 


82  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.  Nothing  can  stop  it  if  he  gets  the 
nomination,  and  the  convention  is  in  session  at 
Frankfort  to-day  with  Mr.  Hardmuth's  name  in  the 
lead. 

JACK  (indicating  paper).  I've  served  that  notice 
on  them  and  they  won't  dare  nominate  him.  That 
is,  I  think  they  won't. 

ALICE.    But  to  charge  him  with  murder  ? 

PRENTICE.  The  only  thing  to  consider  there  is, — 
have  you  your  facts  ? 

JACK.    I  have. 

PRENTICE.  Then  it  was  a  duty  and  you  chose  the 
psychological  moment  for  its  performance.  "  With 
what  measure  you  mete — it  shall  be  measured  to 
you  again."  I  have  pity  for  the  man  whom  that 
paper  crushes,  but  I  have  greater  pity  for  the  boy 
he  is  trying  to  have  hanged.  (Goes  to  ALICE.) 
You  know,  Mrs.  Campbell,  that  young  Whipple  is 
the  grandson  of  an  old  friend  of  mine. 

ALICE.    Yes,  Justice  Prentice,  I  know  that. 

(Enter  Jo,  R.  c.,  followed  by  HELEN  and  VIOLA.) 

Jo.    Mars  Jack ! 

JACK  (turning).    Yes? 

HELEN.  Oh,  Jack! — (Comes  down  to  JACK. 
VIOLA  goes  to  ALICE.) 

JACK.  What  is  it?  (Catches  and  supports 
HELEN.) 

VIOLA.  The  jury  returned  and  asked  for  instruc 
tions. 

JACK.    Well? 

HELEN.    There's  a  recess  of  an  hour. 

VIOLA.  The  court  wishes  them  locked  up  for  the 
night,  but  the  foreman  said  the  jurymen  were  all 
anxious  to  get  to  their  homes  and  he  felt  an  agree 
ment  could  be  reached  in  an  hour. 

PRENTICE.  Did  he  use  exactly  those  words — "  to 
their  homes  "  ? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  83 

VIOLA.    "  To  their  homes  "—yes. 

PRENTICE  (smiling  at  Jack.)    There  you  are. 

HELEN.    What,  Jack? 

JACK.    What  ? 

PRENTICE.  Men  with  vengeance  or  severity  in 
their  hearts  would  hardly  say  they're  "  anxious  to 
get  to  their  homes."  They  say  "  the  jury  is  anxious 
to  get  away,"  or  "  to  finish  its  work." 

HELEN.  Oh,  Justice  Prentice,  you  pin  hope  upon 
such  slight  things. 

PRENTICE.  That  is  what  hope  is  for,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Whipple ;  the  frail  chances  of  this  life. 

VIOLA.  And  now,  Uncle  Jack,  Mrs.  Whipple 
ought  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  something  to  eat. 

HELEN.  Oh,  I  couldn't — we  must  go  back  at 
once. 

VIOLA.    Well,  I  could — I — I  must. 

ALICE.  Yes — you  must — both  of  you.  (Exit  to 
dining-room.) 

VIOLA  (returning  to  HELEN).  You  don't  think 
it's  heartless,  do  you? 

HELEN.    You  dear  child.    (Kisses  her.) 

VIOLA.    You  come,  too. 

HELEN  (refusing).  Please.  (Exit  VIOLA. 
HELEN  sinks  to  sofa.) 

JACK.  And  now,  courage,  my  dear  Helen;  it's 
almost  over. 

HELEN.  At  the  other  trial  the  jury  delayed — 
just  this  way. 

PRENTICE.  Upon  what  point  did  the  jury  ask 
instruction  ? 

HELEN.     Degree. 

PRENTICE.    And  the  court? 

HELEN.  Oh,  Jack,  the  judge  answered — guilty 
in  the  first  degree,  or  not  guilty. 

PRENTICE.    That  all  helps  us. 

HELEN.     It  does? 

JACK.    Who  spoke  for  the  jury? 

HELEN.  The  foreman — and  one  other  juryman 
asked  a  question. 


84  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.  Was  it  the  man  in  the  fourth  chair — first 
now? 

HELEN  (inquiringly).    Yes ? 

JACK.    Ah. 

HELEN.    Why? 

JACK.    I  think  he's  a  friend,  that's  all. 

HELEN.  I  should  die,  Jack,  if  it  wasn't  for 
your  courage.  You  won't  get  tired  of  it — will  you 
'. — and  forsake  my  poor  boy — and  me? 

JACK  (encouragingly).    What  do  you  think? 

HELEN.  All  our  lawyers  are  kindness  itself,  but 
-. — but — you — Jack — you  somehow 

(Enter  VIOLA.) 

VIOLA.  Oh,  Uncle  Jack — here's  a  note  our  lawyer 
asked  me  to  give  to  you — I  forgot  it  until  tills 
minute. 

JACK.    Thank  you.     (Takes  note.) 

VIOLA.    Please  try  a  cup  of  tea. 

HELEN.  No — no — Viola.  (Exit  VIOLA.)  What 
is  it,  Jack?  Are  they  afraid? 

JACK.  It's  not  about  the  trial  at  all.  (Hands 
note  to  PRENTICE.) 

HELEN.     Really  ? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HELEN.    But  why  don't  you  show  it  to  us,  then? 

JACK.  (PRENTICE  returns  note.)  I  will — if  my 
keeping  it  gives  you  so  much  alarm  as  that.  (Turns 
on  the  large  drop  light  and  stands  under  it. )  Colonel 
Bay  ley  says — "  Dear  Jack,  I've  seen  the  paper ; 
Hardmuth  will  shoot  on  sight." 

HELEN  (quickly  to  JACK'S  side).  Oh,  Jack,  if 
anything  should  happen  to  you 

JACK.  "  Anything  "  is  quite  as  likely  to  happen 
to  Mr.  Hardmuth. 

HELEN.  But  not  even  that — my  boy  has  killed  a 
man — and — you — Jack — you — well,  you  just  mustn't 
let  it  happen,  that's  all. 

JACK.    I  mustn't  let  it  happen  because ? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  85 

HELEN.    Because — I — couldn't  bear  it. 

(JACK  lifts  her  hand  to  his  face  and  kisses  it.    Enter 
ALICE.) 

ALICE.    What  was  the  letter,  Jack? 

JACK.  (Hands  letter  to  ALICE  as  he  passes, 
leading  HELEN  to  door.)  And,  now  I'll  agree  to 
do  the  best  I  can  for  Mr.  Hardmuth  if  you'll  take 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit. 

HELEN.    There  isn't  time. 

JACK.  There's  plenty  of  time  if  the  adjournment 
was  for  an  hour. 

ALICE  (in  alarm).    Jack! 

TACK.  Eh — (Turns  to  ALICE).  Wait  one  minute. 
(Goes  on  to  door  with  HELEN.)  Go. 

(Exit  HELEN.) 

ALICE  (as  JACK  returns).  He  threatens  your 
life. 

JACK.  Not  exactly.  Simply  Colonel  Bayley's 
opinion  that  he  will  shoot  on  sight. 

ALICE  (impatiently).     Oh 

JACK.    There  is  a  difference,  you  know. 

(Enter  Jo.) 
Jo.    Mr.  Ellinger,  sah. 

(Enter  LEW.) 

LEW  (briskly).    Hello,  Jack. 
(Exit  Jo.) 

JACK.    Well,  Lew? 

LEW  (with  newspaper).  Why,  that's  the  dam 
nedest  thing — (To  ALICE.)  I  beg  your  pardon. 

ALICE.  Don't,  please — some  manly  emphasis  is 
a  real  comfort,  Mr.  Ellinger. 

LEW.  That  charge  of  yours  against  Hardmuth 
is  raisin'  more  h-h-high  feeling  than  anything  that 
ever  happened. 


86  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.     I  saw  the  paper. 

LEW.  You  didn't  see  this — it's  an  extra. 
(Reads.)  "  The  charge  read  to  the  convention  in 
night  session  at  Frankfort — Bill  Glover  hits  Jim 
Macey  on  the  nose — DeVoe  of  Carter  County  takes 
Jim's  gun  away  from  him  The  delegation  from 
Butler  get  down  to  their  stomachs  and  crawl  under 
the.  benches — some  statemen  go  through  the  win 
dows.  Convention  takes  recess  till  morning.  Local 
sheriff  swearin'  in  deputies  to  keep  peace  in  the 
barrooms." — That's  all  you've  done, 

JACK.  (To  ALICE.)  Good!  (To  PRENTICE.) 
Well,  they  can't  nominate  Mr.  Hardmuth  now. 

LEW.  (To  ALICE.)  I  been  hedgin'— I  told  the 
fellows  I'd  bet  Jack  hadn't  said  it. 

JACK.    Yes — I  did  say  it. 

LEW.  In  just  those  words — ?  (Reads.)  "The 
poor  fellow  that  crouched  back  of  a  window  sill 
and  shot  Kentucky's  governor  deserves  hanging 
less  than  the  man  whom  he  is  shielding — the  man 
who  laid  the  plot  of  assassination.  The  present  pros 
ecuting  attorney  by  appointment — Frank  Allison 
Hardmuth."  Did  you  say  that? 

JACK.  Lew,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake — I 
wrote  it.  (LEW  whistles;  JACK  takes  the  paper 
and  scans  it.) 

LEW.    Is  it  straight? 

JACK.  Yes.  (Pushes  hanging  button  and  turns 
off  the  large  drop^.) 

LEW.    He  was  in  the  plot  to  kill  the  governor  ? 

JACK.    He  organized  it. 

LEW.  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  And 
now  he's  runnin'  for  governor  himself — a  murderer ! 

JACK.    Yes. 

LEW.  (To  PRENTICE.)  And  for  six  months  he's 
been  houndin*  every  fellow  in  Louisville  that  sat 
down  to  a  game  of  cards.  (JACK  nods.)  The 
damned  rascal's  nearly  put  me  in  the  poorhouse. 

JACK.    Poor  old  Lew! 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  87 

LEW.  (To  PRENTICE.)  Why,  before  I  could  get 
to  that  court-house  to-day  I  had  to  take  a  pair  of 
scissors  that  I  used  to  cut  coupons  with  and  trim 
the  whiskers  off  o'  my  shirt  cuffs.  (To  JACK.) 
How  long  have  you  known  this? 

JACK.    Ever  since  the  fact. 

PRENTICE.    Mm 

LEW.    Why  do  you  spring  it  only  now  ? 

JACK.  Because  until  now  I  lacked  the  character 
and  the  moral  courage.  I  spring  it  now  by  the 
advice  of  Justice  Prentice  to  reach  that  convention 
at  Frankfort. 

LEW.    Well,  you  reached  them. 

PRENTICE.  The  convention  was  only  a  secondary 
consideration  with  me — my  real  object  was  this 
jury  witR  whom  Mr.  Hardmuth  seemed  too  power 
ful. 

LEW.    Reach  the  jury  ? 

JACK  (enthusiastically).  The  jury?  Why,  of 
course, — the  entire  jury, — and  I  was  hoping  for 
one  man 

LEW.  Why,  they  don't  see  the  papers — the  jury 
won't  get  a  line  of  this. 

JACK.    I  think  they  will. 

LEW.    You  got  'em  fixed? 

JACK.    Fixed  ?    No. 

LEW.    Then  how  will  they  see  it. 

PRENTICE  (firmly  and  slowly  to  LEW,  who  is  half 
dazed).  How  many  people  in  Louisville  have  al 
ready  read  that  charge  as  you  have  read  it  ? 

LEW.    Thirty  thousand,  maybe,  but 

PRENTICE.  And  five  hundred  thousand  in  the  little 
cities  and  the  towns.  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Ellinger, 
that  all  those  minds  can  be  at  white  heat  over  that 
knowledge  and  none  of  it  reach  the  thought  of  those 
twelve  men  ?  Ah,  no — — - 

JACK.  To  half  a  million  good  Kentuckians  to 
night  Frank  Hardmuth  is  a  repulsive  thing — and 
that  jury's  faith  in  him — is  dead. 


88  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

LEW.  (Pause.)  Why,  Jack,  old  man,  you're 
dippy. 

(ALICE  turns  away  wearily,  agreeing  with  LEW.) 
PRENTICE.    Then,  Mr.  Ellinger,  I  am  dippy,  too. 
(ALICE  turns  back.) 

LEW.  You  mean  you  think  the  jury  gets  the 
public  opinion — without  anybody  tellin'  them  or  their 
reading  it. 

PRENTICE.  Yes.  (Pause.  LEW  looks  stunned) 
In  every  widely  discussed  trial  the  defendant  is  tried 
not  alone  by  his  twelve  peers,  but  by  the  entire  com 
munity. 

LEW.  Why,  blast  it!  The  community  goes  by 
what  the  newspaper  says! 

PRENTICE.  That  is  often  the  regrettable  part  of 
it — but  the  fact  remains. 

JACK.  And  that's  why  you  asked  me  to  expose 
Frank  Hardmuth? 

PRENTICE.     Yes. 

LEW.  Well,  the  public  will  think  you  did  it  be 
cause  he  closed  your  game. 

JACK.    Hardmuth  didn't  close  my  game. 

LEW.    Who  did? 

JACK   (pointing  to  PRENTICE).     This  man. 

PRENTICE.     (To  JACK.)     Thank  you. 

LEW.  How  the  he — er — heaven's  name  did  he 
close  it? 

JACK.  He  gave  my  self-respect  a  slap  on  the 
back  and  I  stood  up.  (Exit.) 

LEW  (thoroughly  confused.  Pause).  Stung! 
(Turns  to  PRENTICE.)  So  you  are  responsible  for 
these — these  new  ideas  of  Jack's  ? 

PRENTICE.  In  a  measure.  Have  the  ideas  ap 
parently  hurt  Mr.  Brookfield? 

LEW.  They've  put  him  out  of  business — that's 
all. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  89 

PRENTICE.    Which  business? 

LEW.    Why,  this  house  of  his. 

PRENTICE.  I  see.  But  his  new  ideas?  Don't 
you  like  them,  Mr.  Ellinger? 

LEW.  I  love  Jack  Brookfield — love  him  like  a 
brother — but  I  don't  want  even  a  brother  askin'  me 
If  I'm  sure  I've  "  thought  it  over  "  when  I'm  startin' 
to  take  the  halter  off  for  a  pleasant  evenin'.  Get  my 
idea? 

PRENTICE.    I  begin  to. 

LEW.  In  other  words — I  don't  want  to  take  my 
remorse  first.  It  dampens  the  fun.  The  other  day  a 
lady  at  the  races  said,  "  We've  missed  you,  Mr. 
Ellinger."  And  I  said,  "  Have  you  ?— Well  I'll  be  up 
this  evening,"  and  I'm  pressing  her  hand  and  hang 
ing  on  to  it  till  I'm  afraid  I'll  get  the  carriage  grease 
on  my  coat— feelin'  only  about  thirty-two,  you 
know ;  then  I  turn  round  and  Jack  has  those  sleepy 
lamps  on  me — and  "  bla  " — (Turns  and  sinks  onto 
sofa.) 

PRENTICE.    And  you  don't  go? 

LEW  (bracing  up).  I  do  go—as  a  matter  of  self- 
respect — but  I  don't  make  a  hit.  I'm  thinking  so 
much  more  about  th^se  morality  ideas  of  Jack's 
than  I  am  about  the  lady  that  it  cramps  my  style 
and  we  never  get  past  the  weather,  and  "  when  did 
you  last  hear  from  So  and-so?"  (Rises.)  I  want 
to  reform  all  right.  I  believe  in  reform.  But  first 
I  want  to  have  the  fun  of  fallin'  and  fallin'  hard. 

Jo  (distant  and  outside).    'Fore  God,  Mars  Clay! 

CLAY.    Jo,  is  my  mother  here? 

ALICE  (entering  left).    Why,  that's  Clay. 

(Voices  off  continue  together  and  approach.) 

LEW.    (To  PRENTICE.)    It's  the  boy. 
ALICE.     His  mother!     (Starts  to  call  HELEN, 
then  falters  in  indecision.)    Oh! 

(The  outside  voices  grow  louder.) 


90  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

PRENTICE.    Acquittal ! 

(Enter  CLAY,  followed  by  COLONEL  BAYLEY,  his  at" 
torney.) 

ALICE.    Clay,  Clay! 
CLAY.    Oh,  Mrs.  Campbell. 

(ALICE  embraces  him.    Enter  JACK,  HELEN,  and 
VIOLA  from  the  dining-room.) 

JACK  (seeing  CLAY  and  speaking  back  to  HELEN). 
Yes. 

HELEN  (as  she  enters).    My  boy! 
CLAY.    Mother ! 

(They  embrace.  CLAY  slips  to  his  knee  with  his 
face  hidden  in  HELEN'S  lap,  repeating  her  name. 
HELEN  standing  szvays  and  is  caught  by  JACK. 
CLAY  noting  this  weakness  rises  and  helps 
support  her.) 

JACK  (rousing  her).    He's  free,  Helen,  he's  free. 
CLAY.    Yes,  mother,  I'm  free. 

(ViOLA,  who  has  crossed  back  of  CLAY  and  HELEN, 
weeps  on  shoulder  of  ALICE,  who  comforts  her.) 

HELEN.    My  boy,  my  boy ! 

(VIOLA  looks  at  them.  HELEN  sees  VIOLA  and 
turns  CLAY  toward  her.  CLAY  takes  VIOLA  in 
his  arms.) 

CLAY.    Viola,  my  brave  sweetheart! 

VIOLA.    It's  really  over? 

CLAY.     Yes. 

JACK.    It's  a  great  victory,  Colonel. 

BAYLEY.    Thank  you. 

JACK.  If  ever  a  lawyer  made  a  good  fight  for  a 
man's  life,  you  did.  Helen,  Viola,  you  must  wanf 
to  shake  this  man's  hand. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  91 

VIOLA.  I  could  have  thrown  my  arms  around 
you  when  you  made  that  speech. 

BAYLEY  (laughing).  Too  many  young  fellows 
crowding  into  the  profession  as  it  is. 

HELEN  (taking  his  hand).  Life  must  be  sweet 
to  a  man  who  can  do  so  much  good  as  you  do. 

BAYLEY.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  you  know,  if  it 
wasn't  that  my  ability  works  both  ways. 

(Enter  HARVEY,  left.) 

HARVEY.    Mars  Clay. 

CLAY.  Harvey !  Why,  dear  old  Harvey.  (Half 
embraces  HARVEY  and  pats  him  affectionately.) 

HARVEY.  Yes,  sah.  Could — could  you  eat  any 
thing,  Mars  Clay? 

CLAY.    Eat  anything !    Why  I'm  starvin',  Harvey. 

HARVEY.     Ha,  ha.     Yes,  sah.     (Exit  quickly.) 

CLAY.    But  you  with  me  mother — and  Viola. 

HELEN.  My  boy !  Colonel !  ( Turns  to  BAYLEY. 
Exeunt  CLAY,  VIOLA,  HELEN,  BAYLEY,  and  ALICE  to 
dining-room.) 

JACK.  (Alone  with  PRENTICE.  Picks  up  BAY- 
LEY'S  letter;  takes  hold  of  push  button  over  head.) 
Mr.  Justice — I  shall  never  doubt  you  again. 

PRENTICE.  Mr.  Brookfield,  never  doubt  your 
self. 

(Enter  HARDMUTH.  He  rushes  down  toward  dining- 
room  and  turns  back  to  JACK  who  is  under  the 
lamp  with  his  hand  on  its  button.) 

HARDMUTH.  You  think  you'll  send  me  to  the 
gallows,  but,  damn  you,  you  go  first  yourself. 
(Thrusts  a  derringer  against  JACK'S  body) 

JACK.  Stop!  (The  big  light  flashes  on  above 
HARDMUTH'S  eyes.  At  JACK'S  "Stop"  PRENTICE 
inclines  forward  with  eyes  on  HARDMUTH  so  that 
there  is  a  double  battery  of  hypnotism  on  him.  A 
pause.)  You  can't  shoot — that — gun.  You  can't 


92  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

pull  the  trigger.  (Pause.)  You  can't — even — hold 
—the— gun.  (Pause.  The  derringer  drops  from 
HARDMUTH'S  hand.)  Now,  Frank,  you  can  go. 

HARDMUTH  (recoiling  slowly).    I'd  like  to  know 
• — how  in  hell  you  did  that — to  me. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV 

SCENE: — Same  as  Act  III.    All  lights  on  includ 
ing  big  electric. 

CLAY  and  VIOLA  seated  on  sofa  near  the  fire 
place. 

VIOLA.  I  must  really  say  good-night  and  let  you 
get  some  sleep. 

CLAY.  Not  before  Jack  gets  home.  Our  mothers 
have  considerately  left  us  alone  together.  They'll 
just  as  considerately  tell  us  when  it's  time  to  part. 

VIOLA.  My  mother  said  it  was  time  half  an  hour 
ago. 

CLAY.    Wait  till  Jack  comes  in. 

(Enter  Jo.) 

Jo.    Mars  Clay? 

CLAY.    Well,  Jo? 

Jo.    Dey's  another  reporter  to  see  you,  sah? 

VIOLA.  Send  him  away — Mr.Whipple  won't  see 
any  more  reporters. 

CLAY.  (Rises.)  Wait  a  minute — who  is  he? 
(Jo  hands  card.)  I've  got  to  see  this  one,  Viola. 

VIOLA  (complaining).    Why  "got  to"? 

CLAY.    He's  a  friend— I'll  see  him,  Jo. 

Jo.    Yas,  sah — (Exit.) 

VIOLA.  (Rises.)  You've  said  that  all  day — 
they're  all  friends. 

CLAY.    Well,  they  are — but  this  boy  especially. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  93 

It  was  fine  to  see  you  and  mother  and  Jack  when  I 
was  in  that  jail — great — but  you  were  there  day 
times.  This  boy  spent  hours  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bars  helping  me  pass  the  awful  nights.  I  tell  you 
— death-cells  would  be  pretty  nearly  hell  if  it  wasn't 
for  the  police  reporters — ministers  ain't  in  it  with 


\Enter  EMMETT,  a  reporter.) 

EMMETT.     Good-evening. 

CLAY.  How  are  you,  Ned?  You  know  Miss 
Campbell? 

EMMETT  (bowing).    Yes. 

VIOLA.     Good-evening. 

CLAY.    Have  a  chair. 

EMMETT.  Thank  you.  (Defers  to  VIOLA  who 
sits  first  on  sofa.  Pause.)  This  is  different. 
(Looks  around  the  room.) 

CLAY.    Some. 

EMMETT.  Satisfied?  The  way  we  handled  the 
story? 

CLAY.    Perfectly.    You  were  just  bully,  old  man. 

EMMETT.  (To  VIOLA.)  That  artist  of  ours  is 
only  a  kid — and  they  work  him  to  death  on  the 
"  Sunday  "— so—  (Pause.  To  CLAY.)  You  under 
stand. 

CLAY.  Oh— I  got  used  to  the— pictures  a  year 
ago. 

EMMETT.  Certainly.  (Pause.)  Anything  you 
want  to  say? 

VIOLA.    For  the  paper? 

EMMETT.    Yes. 

CLAY.    I  think  not. 

(Enter    HELEN    and    ALICE    from    dining-room. 
EMMETT  rises.) 

HELEN.    Gay,  dear—  (Pause.)    Oh 


94  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

CLAY.    You  met  my  mother? 

EMMETT.    No 

CLAY.  Mother — this  is  Mr.  Emmett  of  whom 
Fve  told  you  so  often. 

HELEN.    Oh— the  good  reporter. 

EMMETT.  (To  CLAY.)  Gee!  That'd  be  a 
wonder  if  the  gang  heard  it.  (Taking  HELEN'S 
hand  as  she  offers  it.)  We  got  pretty  well  ac 
quainted — yes'm. 

CLAY  (introducing  ALICE).     Mrs.  Campbell. 

ALICE.    Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Emmett? 

EMMETT.  Thank  you.  I  guess  we've  covered 
everything,  but  the  chief  wanted  me  to  see  your  son 
—(turns  to  CLAY)  and  see  if  you'd  do  the  paper 
a  favor? 

CLAY.    If  possible — gladly 

EMMETT.  I  cfcn't  like  the  assignment  because — 
well  for  the  very  reason  that  it  was  handed  to  me 
— and  that  is  because  we're  more  or  less  friendly. 

(Enter  JACK  R.  c.  in  fur  coat  with  cap  and  goggles  in 
hand.) 

JACK.    Well,  it's  a  wonderful  night  outside. 

ALICE.    You're  back  early. 

JACK.  Purposely.  (To  EMMETT.)  How  are 
you? 

EMMETT  (rising).    Mr.  Brookfield. 

JACK.  I  thought  you  girls  might  like  a  little  run 
in  the  moonlight  before  I  put  in  the  machine. 

HELEN.  Mr.  Emmett  has  some  message  from  his 
editor. 

JACK.    What  is  it? 

EMMETT.  There's  a  warrant  out  for  Hardmuth 
— you  saw  that? 

VIOLA.    Yes,  we  saw  that.     (Goes  to  JACK.) 

JACK.    To-night's  paper 

EMMETT.  If  they  get  him  and  he  comes  to  trial 
and  all  that,  it'll  be  the  biggest  trial  Kentucky  ever 
saw. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  95 

CLAY.    Well? 

EMMETT.  Well — the  paper  wants  you  to  agree 
to  report  it  for  them — the  trial — there'll  be  other 
papers  after  you,  of  course. 

VIOLA.    Oh,  no 

EMMETT.  Understand,  Clay,  I'm  not  asking  it. 
(To  VIOLA.)  I'm  here  under  orders  just  as  I'd 
be  at  a  fire  or  a  bread  riot. 

CLAY  (demurring).  And — of  course — you  un 
derstand,  don't  you? 

EMMETT.  Perfectly — and  I  told  the  chief  myself 
you  wouldn't  see  it. 

CLAY.  Paper's  been  too  friendly  for  me  to  as 
sume  any — any 

JACK.    Unnecessary  dignity 

CLAY.    Exactly — but— I  just  couldn't,  you  see — 

EMMETT  (going).  Oh,  leave  it  t-  me— I'll  let  'em 
down  easy. 

CLAY.    Thank  you. 

EMMETT.    You   expect  to  be  in  Europe  or 

CLAY.    But  I  don't. 

(JACK  removes  fur  coat,  puts  it  on  chair  up  right 
center.) 

VIOLA.  We're  going  to  stay  right  here  in  Louis 
ville 

CLAY.  And  work  out  my — my  own  future 
among  the  people  who  know  me. 

EMMETT.  Of  course — Europe's  just  to  stall  off 
the  chief — get  him  on  to  some  other  dope 

HELEN   (rising).     But 

JACK  (interrupting).     It's  all  right. 

HELEN.  (To  Jack).  I  hate  to  begin  with  a  false 
hood. 

EMMETT.  Not  your  son — me — Saw  some  copy 
on  our  telegraph  desk,  Mr.  Brookfield,  that'd  in 
terest  you. 

JACK.    Yes. 

EMMETT.  Or  maybe  you  know  of  it?  Frank 
fort 


96  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    No. 

EMMETT.    Some  friend  named  you  in  the  caucus. 

JACK.    What  connection  ? 

EMMETT.    Governor. 

VIOLA.    (To  EMMETT.)  Uncle  Jack? 

EMMETT.     Yes'm — that  is,  for  the  nomination. 

JACK.     It's  a  joke. 

EMMETT.  Grows  out  of  these  Hardmuth  charges, 
of  course. 

JACK.    That's  all. 

EMMETT.  Good-night — (Bows.)  Mrs.  Whipple 
— ladies — (Exit.) 

CLAY  (going  to  door  with  EMMETT).  You'll 
make  that  quite  clear,  won't  you? 

EMMETT  (outside).    I'll  fix  it. 

CLAY  (returning).  If  it  wasn't  for  the  notoriety 
of  it,  I'd  like  to  do  that.  (Sits  right  of  table.) 

HELEN  (reproachfully).    My  son! 

JACK.    Why  would  you  like  to  do  it? 

CLAY.  To  get  even.  I'd  like  to  see  Hardmuth 
suffer  as  he  made  me  suffer.  I'd  like  to  watch  him 
suffer  and  write  of  it. 

JACK.  That's  a  bad  spirit  to  face  the  world  with, 
my  boy. 

CLAY.    I  hate  him.    (Goes  to  VIOLA.) 

JACK.  Hatred  is  heavier  freight  for  the  shipper 
than  it  is  for  the  consignee. 

CLAY.    I  can't  help  it. 

JACK.  Yes,  you  can  help  it.  Mr.  Hardmuth 
should  be  of  the  utmost  indifference  to  you.  To 
hate  him  is  weak. 

VIOLA.    Weak? 

JACK.  Yes,  weak-minded.  Hardmuth  was  in  love 
with  you  at  one  time — he  hated  Clay.  He  said 
Clay  was  as  weak  as  dishwater — (to  CLAY) — and 
you  were  at  that  time.  You've  had  your  lesson — 
profit  by  it.  Its  meaning  was  self-control.  Begin 
now  if  you're  going  to  be  the  custodian  of  this  girl's 
happiness. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  97 

HELEN.     I'm  sure  he  means  to,  Jack. 

JACK.  You  can  carry  your  hatred  of  Hardmuth 
and  let  it  embitter  your  whole  life — or  you  can  drop 
it — so — (Drops  a  book  on  table.)  The  power  that 
any  man  or  anything  has  to  annoy  us  we  give  him 
or  it  by  our  interest.  Some  idiot  told  your  great- 
grandmother  that  a  jewel  with  different  colored 
strata  in  it  was  "  bad  luck  " — or  a  "  hoodoo  " — she 
believed  it,  and  she  nursed  her  faith  that  passed  the 
lunacy  on  to  your  grandmother. 

HELEN.    Jack,  don't  talk  of  that,  please. 

JACK.  I'll  skip  one  generation — but  I'd  like  to 
talk  of  it. 

ALICE  (rising,  comes  to  HELEN).    Why  talk  of  it  ? 

JACK.  It  was  only  a  notion,  and  an  effort  of  will 
can  banish  it. 

CLAY.    It  was  more  than  a  notion. 

JACK.  Tom  Denning's  scarf-pin  which  he  dropped 
there  (indicates  floor)  was  an  exhibit  in  your 
trial — Judge  Bayley  returned  it  to  me  to-day.  (Puts 
hand  in  pocket.) 

VIOLA.  I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Uncle  Jack.  (  Turns 
away. ) 

JACK.    (To  CLAY.)    You  don't  mind,  do  you? 

CLAY.    I'd  rather  not  look  at  it — to-night. 

JACK.  You  needn't  look  at  it.  I'll  hold  it  in  my 
hand  and  you  put  your  hands  over  mine. 

ALICE.  I  really  don't  see  the  use  in  this  experi 
ment,  Jack. 

JACK  (with  CLAY'S  hand  over  his).  That  doesn't 
annoy  you,  does  it  ? 

CLAY.  I'm  controlling  myself,  sir — but  I  feel 
the  influence  of  the  thing  all  through  and  through 
me. 

HELEN.   Jack ! 

( VIOLA  turns  away  in  protest.) 

JACK.  Down  your  back,  isn't  it,  and  in  the  roots 
of  your  hair — tingling ? 


98  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

CLAY.    Yes. 

HELEN.    Why  torture  him? 

JACK.     Is  it  torture? 

CLAY  (with  brave  self-control).  I  shall  be  glad 
when  it's  over. 

JACK  (severely).  What  rot!  That's  only  my 
night-key — look  at  it.  I  haven't  the  scarf-pin  about 
me. 

CLAY.    Why  make  me  think  it  was  the  scarf-pin  ? 

JACK.  To  prove  to  you  that  it's  only  thinking — 
that's  all.  Now,  be  a  man — the  cat's-eye  itself  is 
in  that  table  drawer.  Get  it  and  show  Viola  that 
you're  not  a  neuropathic  idiot.  You're  a  child  of 
the  everlasting  God  and  nothing  on  the  earth  or 
under  it  can  harm  you  in  the  slightest  degree.  (CLAY 
opens  drawer  and  takes  pin.)  That's  the  spirit — 
look  at  it — (pushes  CLAY'S  hand  up  to  his  face)  I've 
made  many  ja  young  horse  do  that  to  an  umbrella. 
Now,  give  it  to  me.  (  To  VIOLA.  )  You're  not  afraid 
of  it. 

VIOLA.    Why,  of  course  I'm  not. 

JACK  (putting  pin  on  her  breast).  Now,  if  you 
want  my  niece,  go  up  to  that  hoodoo  like  a  man. 
(CLAY  embraces  VIOLA.) 

HELEN.    Oh,  Jack,  do  you  think  that  will  last  ? 

JACK.  Which— indifference  to  the  hoodoo  or 
partiality  to  my  niece? 

CLAY.    They'll  both  last. 

JACK.  Now,  my  boy,  drop  your  hatred  of  Hard- 
muth  as  you  drop  your  fear  of  the  scarf-pin.  Don't 
look  back— your  life's  ahead  of  you.  Don't  mount 
for  the  race  over-weight. 

(Enter  Jo,  R.  c.) 
Jo.    Mr.  Ellinger. 

(Enter  LEW.) 
LEW.    I  don't  intrude,  do  I? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  99 

JACK.    Come  in. 

LEW.  (To  LADIES.)  Good-evening.  Ah,  Clay. 
(Shakes  hands  with  CLAY.  )  Glad  to  see  you  looking 
so  well.  Glad  to  see  you  in  such  good  company. 
(To  JACK,  briskly.)  I've  got  him. 

JACK.    Got  whom? 

LEW.  Hardmuth.  (To  LADIES.)  Detectives 
been  hunting  him  all  day,  you  know. 

HELEN.    He's  caught,  you  say? 

LEW.  No — but  I've  treed  him — (to  JACK) — and 
I  thought  I'd  just  have  a  word  with  you  before 
passing  the  tip.  (To  LADIES.)  He's  nearly  put 
me  in  the  poorhouse  with  his  raids  and  closing  laws, 
and  I  see  a  chance  to  get  even. 

JACK.    In  what  way? 

LEW.  They've  been  after  him  nearly  twenty- 
four  hours — morning  paper's  going  to  offer  a  re 
ward  for  him,  and  I  understand  the  State  will 
also.  If  I  had  a  little  help  I'd  hide  him  for  a  day  or 
two  and  then  surrender  him  for  those  rewards. 

JACK.     Where  is  Hardmuth?     (Sits  at  table.) 

LEW.     Hiding. 

JACK  (writing  a  note).    Naturally. 

LEW.    You  remember  Big  George? 

JACK.    The  darkey  ? 

LEW.  Yes — used  to  be  on  the  door  at  Phil 
Kelly's? 

JACK.    Yes. 

LEW.  He's  there.  In  Big  George's  cottage — long 
story — Big  George's  wife — that  is,  she — well,  his 
wife — used  to  be  pantry  maid  for  Hardmuth's 
mother.  When  they  raided  Kelly's  game,  Big  George 
pretended  to  turn  State's  evidence,  but  he  really  hates 
Hardmuth  like  a  rattler — 30  it  all  comes  back  to 
me.  You  see,  if  I'd  win  a  couple  of  hundred  at 
Kelly's  I  used  to  slip  George  a  ten  going  out.  Your 
luck  always  stays  by  you  if  you  divide  a  little  with 
a  nigger  or  a  humpback — and  in  Louisville  it's 
easier  to  find  a  nigger — so 


ioo  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    He's  there  now? 

LEW.  Yes.  He  wants  to  get  away.  He's  got 
two  guns  and  he'll  shoot  before  he  gives  up — so  I'd 
have  to  con  him  some  way.  George's  wife  is  to 
open  the  door  to  Kelly's  old  signal,  you  remember 
—  (raps) — one  knock,  then  two,  and  then  one. 

JACK.    Where  is  the  cottage? 

LEW.  Number  7  Jackson  Street — little  dooryard 
— border  of  arbor-vitae  on  the  path. 

JACK.  One  knock — then  two — and  then  one — • 
(Rises  with  note  written.) 

LEW.    What  you  gonta  do  ? 

JACK.    Send  for  him. 

LEW.    Who  you  gonta  send? 

JACK.    That  boy  there. 

CLAY.    Me? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HELEN.    Oh,  no — no. 

JACK.     And  my  niece. 

VIOLA.    What!    To  arrest  a  man? 

JACK.  (To  CLAY.)  My  machine  is  at  the  door. 
Give  Hardmuth  this  note.  He'll  come  with  you 
quietly.  Bring  him  here.  We'll  decide  what  to  do 
with  him  after  that. 

ALICE.    I  can't  allow  Viola  on  such  an  errand. 

JACK.  When  the  man  she's  promised  to  marry 
is  going  into  danger 

VIOLA.  If  Mr.  Hardmuth  will  come  for  that 
note — why  can't  I  deliver  it? 

JACK.    You  may — if  Clay '11  let  you. 

CLAY  (quietly  taking  note  as  JACK  offers  it  to 
VIOLA).  I'll  hand  it  to  him. 

JACK.  I  hope  so.  (Gives  goggles  and  coat.) 
Take  these — remember — one  rap,  then  two,  then 
one. 

CLAY.    I  understand — number  seven ? 

LEW.    Jackson  Street. 

ALICE.    I  protest. 

HELEN.   So  do  I. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  101 

JACK.  (To  CLAY  and  VIOLA.)  You're  both  of 
age.  I  ask  you  to  do  it.  If  you  give  Hardmuth  the 
goggles,  nobody'll  recognize  him  and  with  a  lady 
beside  him  you'll  get  him  safely  here. 

CLAY.    Come.     (Exit  with  VIOLA.) 

LEW  (following  to  door).  I  ought  to  be  in  the 
party. 

JACK.     No — you  stay  here. 

ALICE.    That's  scandalous. 

JACK.  But  none  of  us  will  start  the  scandal, 
will  we? 

HELEN.  Clay  knows  nothing  of  that  kind  of 
work — a  man  with  two  guns — think  of  it. 

JACK.  After  he's  walked  barehanded  up  to  a 
couple  of  guns  a  few  times,  he'll  quit  fearing  men 
that  are  armed  only  with  a  scarf-pin. 

HELEN  (hysterically).  It's  cruel  to  keep  con 
stantly  referring  to  that — that — mistake  of  Clay's — 
I  want  to  forget  it. 

JACK  (going  to  HELEN.  Tenderly).  The  way 
to  forget  it,  my  dear  Helen,  is  not  to  guard  it  as  a 
sensitive  spot  in  your  memory,  but  to  grasp  it  as 
the  wise  ones  grasp  a  nettle — crush  all  its  power 
to  harm  you  in  one  courageous  contact.  We  think 
things  are  calamities  and  trials  and  sorrows — only 
names.  They  are  spiritual  gymnastics  and  have  an 
eternal  value  when  once  you  front  them  and  make 
them  crouch  at  your  feet.  Say  once  for  all  to  your 
soul  and  thereby  to  the  world — "  Yes,  my  boy  killed 
a  man — because  I'd  brought  him  up  a  half -effem 
inate,  hysterical  weakling,  but  he's  been  through 
the  fire  and  I've  been  through  the  fire,  and  we're 
both  the  better  for  it." 

HELEN.  I  can  say  that  truthfully,  but  I  don't 
want  to  make  a  policeman  of  him,  just  the  same. 
(Exit  to  dining-room.) 

ALICE  (following).  Your  treatment's  a  little  too 
heroic,  Jack.  (Exit.) 

LEW.    Think  they'll  fetch  him? 


102  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    (Sits  left  of  table.)    Yes. 

LEW.  He'll  come,  of  course,  if  he  does,  under 
the  idea  that  you'll  help  him  when  he  gets  here. 

JACK.     Yes. 

LEW.  Pretty  hard  double-cross,  but  he  deserves 
it.  I've  got  a  note  of  fifteen  thousand  to  meet  to 
morrow,  or,  damn  it,  I  don't  think  I'd  fancy  this 
man-huntin'.  I  put  up  some  Louisville-Nashville 
bonds  for  security,  and  the  holder  of  the  note'll 
be  only  too  anxious  to  pinch  'em. 

JACK.  You  can't  get  your  rewards  in  time  for 
that. 

LEW.  I  know — and  that's  one  reason  I  come  to 
you,  Jack.  If  you  see  I'm  in  a  fair  way  to  get  a 
reward 

JACK.    I'll  lend  you  the  money,  Lew. 

LEW.  Thank  you.  (JACK  takes  check-book  and 
writes.)  I  thought  you  would.  If  I  lose  those 
bonds  they'll  have  me  selling  programs  for  a  livin' 
at  a  grand  stand.  You  see,  I  thought  hatin'  Hard- 
muth  as  you  do,  and  your  reputation  bein'  up  through 

that  stuff  to  the  papers 

•  JACK.    There.    (Gives  check.) 

LEW.  Thank  you,  old  man.  I'll  hand  this  back 
to  you  in  a  week. 

JACK.    (Rises.)    You  needn't. 

LEW.    What? 

JACK.  You  needn't  hand  it  back.  It's  only  fifteen 
thousand  and  you've  lost  a  hundred  of  them  at  poker 
in  these  rooms. 

LEW.    Never  belly-ached,  did  I  ? 

JACK.    Never — but  you  don't  owe  me  that  fifteen. 

LEW.    Rot !  I'm  no  baby — square  game,  wasn't  it  ? 

JACK.    Perfectly. 

LEW.  And  I'll  sit  in  a  square  game  any  time  I  get 
a  chance. 

JACK.    I  know,  Lew,  all  about  that. 

LEW.  I'll  play  you  for  this  fifteen  right  now 
(Displays  check.) 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  103 

JACK.    No.     (Walks  aside.) 

LEW.  Ain't  had  a  game  in  three  weeks — and,  be 
sides,  I  think  my  luck's  changin'  ?  When  Big  George 
told  me  about  Hardmuth  I  took  George's  hand  be 
fore  I  thought  what  I  was  doin' — and  you  know  what 
shakin'  hands  with  a  nigger  does  just  before  any 
play. 

JACK  (resisting  LEW'S  plea.)  No,  thank  you, 
Lew. 

LEW.  My  money's  good  as  anybody  else's,  ain't 
it? 

JACK.    Just  as  good,  but 

LEW.  It  ain't  a  phoney  check,  is  it?  (Examines 
check.) 

JACK.    The  check's  all  right. 

LEW  (taunting).    Losing  your  nerves ? 

JACK.  No  (pause) — suppose  you  shuffle  those 
and  deal  a  hand.  (Indicates  small  table,  right.) 

LEW.  That's  like  old  times;  what  is  it — stud 
horse  or  draw ?  -(Sits  at  table.) 

JACK.    (Goes  to  fireplace.)    Draw  if  you  say  so. 

LEW.    I  cut  'em? 

JACK.    You  cut  them. 

LEW  (dealing  two  poker  hands).  Table  stakes — 
check  goes  for  a  thousand. 

JACK.    That  suits  me. 

LEW  (taking  his  own  cards).    Sit  down. 

JACK  (at  other  side  of  room  looking, into  fire). 
I  don't  need  to  sit  down  just  yet. 

LEW.    As  easy  as  that,  am  I  ? 

JACK.    Lew ! 

LEW.    Yes  ? 

JACK.  (Pause.)  Do  you  happen  to  have  three 
queens  ? 

(LEW  looks  at  JACK,  then  carefully  at  back  of  his 
own  cards,  then  at  the  deck.) 

LEW.    Well,  I  can't  see  it. 


104  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

JACK.    No  use  looking — they're  noE  marked 

LEW.    Well,  I  shuffled'm  all  right/ 

JACK.    Yes. 

LEW.  And  cut'm?  (JACK  Wo'ds)  Couldn't  V 
been  a  cold  deck  ? 

JACK.    No. 

LEW.  Then,  how  did  you  know  I  had  three 
queens  ? 

JACK.    I  didn't  know  it.    I  just  thought  you  had. 

LEW.    Can  you  do  it  again  ? 

JACK.    I  don't  know.    Draw  one  card. 

LEW  (drawing  one  card  from  deck).    All  right. 

JACK.    (Pause.)    Is  it  the  ace  of  hearts  ? 

LEW.    It  is. 

JACK.  Mm — turns  me  into  a  rotter,  doesn't  it? 
(Comes  gloomily  to  the  big  table.) 

LEW.    Can  you  do  that  every  time  ? 

JACK.  I  never  tried  it  until  to-night — that  is,  con 
sciously.  I've  always  had  luck  and  I  thought  it  was 
because  I  took  chances  on  a  game — same  as  any 
player — but  that  don't  look  like  it,  does  it  ? 

LEW.    Beats  me. 

JACK.  And  what  a  monster  it  makes  of  me — these 
years  I've  been  in  the  business. 

LEW.    You  say  you  didn't  know  before  ? 

JACK.  I  didn't  know  it — no — but — some  things 
have  happened  lately  that  have  made  me  think  it 
might  be  so;  that  jury  yesterday — some  facts  I've 
had  from  Justice  Prentice.  Telepathy  of  a  very 
common  kind — and  I  guess  it's  used  in  a  good  many 
games,  old  man,  we  aren't  on  to. 

LEW.    Well — have  you  told  anybody  ? 

JACK.    No. 

LEW  (excitedly).  Good!  (Rises  and  comes  to 
JACK.)  Now,  see  here,  Jack,  if  you  can  do  that 
right  along  I  know  a  game  in  Cincinnati  where  it'd 
be  like  takin*  candy  from  children. 

JACK.  Good  God!  you're  not  suggesting  that  I 
keep  it  up  ? 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  105 

LEW.  Don't  over-do  it — no — (Pause.)  Or  you 
show  me  the  trick  and  I'll  collect  all  right. 

JACK  (slowly).  Lew — (Pause.)  Some  of  the 
fellows  I've  won  from  in  this  house  have  gone  over 
to  the  park  and  blown  their  heads  off. 

LEW.  Some  of  the  fellows  anybody  wins  from  in 
any  house  go  somewhere  and  blow  their  heads  off. 

JACK.   True — (Pause.) 

LEW.  Three  queens — before  the  draw — well,  you 
could  'a*  had  me  all  right — and  you  won't  tell  me  how 
you  do  it  ? 

JACK.  I  don't  know  how  I  do  it ;  the  thougftt  just 
comes  to  my  mind  stronger  than  any  other  thought. 

LEW  (reprovingly).  God  A 'mighty  gives  you  a 
mind  like  that  and  you  won't  go  with  me  to 
Cincinnati.  (Goes  to  card  table;  studies  cards.) 

(Enter  Jo.) 

b.    Justice  Prentice,  sah. 
ACK.    Ask  him  to  step  up  here, 
b.    Yes,  sah.    (Exit.) 

FACK.     (Goes  to  door,  left.)     Alice — Helen — 
Justice  Prentice  has  called ;  I'd  like  you  to  join  us. 
LEW.'  Can  the  old  man  call  a  hand  like  that,  too? 
JACK.    I'm  sure  he  could. 
LEW.    And — are  there  others  ? 
JACK.     I  believe  there  are  a  good  many  others 
who  unconsciously  have  the  same  ability. 

LEW.  Well,  it's  a  God's  blessin'  there's  a  sucker 
born  every  minute.  I'm  a  widow  and  an  orphan 
'longside  o'  that.  (Throws  cards  in  disgust  onto 
table.) 

(Enter  ALICE  and  HELEN.) 

ALICE.    Been  losing,  Mr.  Ellinger? 
LEW.    Losing?    I  just  saved  fifteen  thousand  I 
was  gonta  throw  'way  like  sand  in  a  rathole.    I'm  a 


io6  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

babe  eatin*  spoon  victuals  and  only  gettin'  half  at 
that 

(Enter  PRENTICE,  R.  c.)]7 

TACK.    Good-evening. 

PRENTICE.  Good-evening.  (Shakes  hands  with 
ALICE  and  HELEN) 

JACK.  I  stopped  at  your  hotel,  Mr.  Justice,  but 
you  were  out. 

(Enter  VIOLA,  R.  c.) 


ALICE  (anxiously).    Viola. 
HELEN.    Where's  Gay? 


VIOLA.    Downstairs.    Good-evening. 
PRENTICE.    Good-evening. 
JACK.    (Toothers.)    Pardon.    (To  VIOLA.)    Did 
the — gentleman  come  'With  you  ? 
VIOLA.    Yes. 

(LEW  flutters  and  shows  excitement.) 

JACK.  Won't  you  ask  Clay,  my  dear,  to  take  him 
through  the  lower  hall  and  into  the  dining-room  until 
I'm  at  liberty  ? 

VIOLA.    Certainly.     (Exit) 

PRENTICE.  I  am  keeping  you  from  other  appoint 
ments  ? 

JACK.    Nothing  that  can't  wait. 

PRENTICE.  I  am  leaving  for  Washington  in  the 
morning. 

JACK.    We'll  all  be  at  the  train  to  see  you  off. 

PRENTICE.  That's  good,  because  I  should  like  to 
say  good-bye  to — to  the  young  people — I  can  see 
them  there — I  shan't  see  you  then,  Mr.  Ellinger — 
(Goes  to  LEW,  who  stands  at  card  table.) 

LEW.  Good-bye,  Judge — you — you've  given  me 
more  of  a  "  turn  over  "  than  you  know. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  107 

PRENTICE.    Really  ? 

LEW.  I'd  'a'  saved  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
if  I'd  'a'  met  you  thirty  years  ago. 

PRENTICE.  Well,  that's  only  about  six  thousand 
a  year,  isn't  it  ? 

LEW.  That's  so — and,  damn  it,  I  have  lived. 
(Smiles — looks  dreamily  into  the  past.) 

PRENTICE.    Good-night.    (Exit  PRENTICE.) 

JACK.    Good-night — good-night. 

ALICE.  Is  that  Hardmuth  in  there?  (Points  to 
dining-room. ) 

JACK.    Yes. 

ALICE.    I  don't  want  to  see  him. 

JACK.    Very  well,  dear,  I'll  excuse  you. 

ALICE,     (going).    Come,  Helen. 

JACK  (at  door,  left).  Come  in.  (To  HELEN, 
who  is  going  with  ALICE.)  Helen !  I'd  like  you  to 
stay. 

HELEN.    Me? 

JACK.    Yes. 

(Exit  ALICE  L.  c.  Enter  CLAY,  HARDMUTH,  and 
VIOLA  from  dining-room.  VIOLA  lays  automo 
bile  coat  on  sofa.  HARDMUTH  bows  to  HELEN. 
HELEN  bows.) 

JACK.  Your  mother  has  just  left  us,  Viola. 
You'd  better  join  her. 

VIOLA.    Very  well. 

JACK  (taking  her  hand  as  she  passes  him).  And 
I  want  you  to  know — I  appreciate  very  much,  my 
dear,  your  going  on  this  errand  for  me — you're  the 
right  stuff.  (Kisses  her.  Exit  VIOLA,  L.  c.  To 
HARDMUTH.)  You're  trying  to  get  away? 

HARDMUTH.    This  your  note? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HARDMUTH.  You  say  you'll  help  me  out  of  the 
State? 

JACK.    I  will. 


io8  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

HARDMUTH.    When? 

JACK.    Whenever  you're  ready. 

HARDMUTH.    I'm  ready  now. 

JACK.    Then  I'll  help  you  now. 

LEW.    Now  ? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HELEN.  Doesn't  that  render  you  liable  in  some 
way,  Jack,  to  the  law  ? 

JACK.  Yes — but  I've  been  liable  to  the  law  in 
some  way  for  the  last  twenty  years.  (To  CLAY.) 
You  go  down  and  tell  the  chauffeur  to  leave  the 
machine  and  walk  home.  I'm  going  to  run  it  myself 
and  I'll  turn  it  in. 

CLAY.    Yes,  sir.    (Exit  R.  e.) 

HARDMUTH.    You're  going  to  run  it  yourself? 

JACK.    Yes. 

HARDMUTH.    Where  to? 

JACK.  Across  the  river,  if  that's  agreeable  to  you 
— or  any  place  you  name. 

HARDMUTH.  Is  anybody — waiting  for  you — 
across  the  river  ? 

JACK.    No. 

HARDMUTH  (again  with  note).  This  is  all  on 
the  level? 

JACK.    Completely. 

LEW.    Why,  I  think  you  mean  that. 

JACK.    I  do. 

LEW  (aggressively).  But  I've  got  something  to 
say,  haven't  I  ? 

JACK.    I  hope  not. 

LEW  (quitting).  If  you're  in  earnest,  of  course. 
But  I  don't  see  your  game. 

JACK.  I'm  not  fully  convinced  of  Mr.  Hardmuth's 
guilt. 

LEW.    Why,  he's  running  away  ? 

(Enter  CLAY.) 

HARDMUTH.  I  know  what  a  case  they'd  make 
against  me,  but  I'm  not  guilty  in  any  degree. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  109 

JACK.  I  want  to  do  this  thing  for  you,  Frank — 
don't  make  it  too  difficult  by  any  lying.  When  I 
said  I  wasn't  fully  convinced  of  your  guilt,  my 
reservation  was  one  you  wouldn't  understand.  (To 
CLAY.)  He  gone? 

CLAY.    Yes. 

JACK.    My  coat  and  goggles  ? 

CLAY.    Below  in  the  reception-room. 

JACK.  Thank  you.  I  wish  now  you'd  go  to  Viola 
and  her  mother  and  keep  them  wherever  they  are. 

CLAY.    All  right.    (Exit.) 

JACK.  (To  HARDMUTH.)  Hungry?  (Touches 
push  button.) 

HARDMUTH.    No,  thank  you. 

JACK.    Got  money  ? 

HARDMUTH.    Yes. 

(Enter  Jo,  R.  c.) 

JACK.  Jo,  take  Mr.  Hardmuth  below  and  lend 
him  one  of  the  fur  coats.  (To  HARDMUTH.)  I'll 
join  you  immediately. 

(Exit  HARDMUTH  with  Jo.) 

HELEN.    What  does  it  all  mean,  Jack  ? 

JACK.   Lew,  I  called  that  ace  of  hearts,  didn't  I  ? 

LEW.    And  the  three  queens. 

JACK.  Because  the  three  queens  and  the  ace  were 
in  your  mind. 

LEW.    I  don't  see  any  other  explanation. 

JACK.  Suppose,  instead  of  the  cards  there'd  been 
in  your  mind  a  well-developed  plan  of  assassina 
tion — the  picture  of  a  murder 

LEW.    Did  you  drop  to  him  that  way  ? 

JACK.  No.  Raynor  told  me  all  I  know  of 
Hardmuth — but  here's  the  very  hell  of  it.  Long 
before  Scovill  was  killed  I  thought  he  deserved  kill- 


no  THE  WITCHING  HOUR. 

ing  and  I  thought  it  could  be  done  just — as — it — 
was  done. 

HELEN.    Jack ! 

JACK.  I  never  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  a  living 
soul,  but  Hardmuth  planned  it  exactly  as  I  dreamed 
it — and  by  God,  a  guilty  thought  is  almost  as  crim 
inal  as  a  guilty  deed.  I've  always  had  a  consider 
able  influence  over  that  poor  devil  that's  running 
away  to-night,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  before  the 
Judge  of  both  of  us  the  guilt  isn't  mostly  mine. 

HELEN.  That's  morbid,  Jack,  dear,  perfectly 
morbid. 

JACK.  I  hope  it  is — we'll  none  of  us  ever  know — 
in  this  life — but  we  can  all  of  us — (Pause) 

LEW.    What? 

JACK.  Live  as  if  it  were  true.  (Change  of  man 
ner  to  brisk  command)  I'm  going  to  help  him  over 
the  line — the  roads  are  watched,  but  the  police  won't 
suspect  me  and  they  won't  suspect  Lew — and  all 
the  less  if  there's  a  lady  with  us— (To  LEW)  Will 
you  go? 

LEW.    The  limit. 

JACK.    Get  a  heavy  coat  from  Jo. 

LEW.    Yes.     (Exit) 

JACK.  (Alone  with  HELEN)  You  know  you  said 
I  used  to  be  able  to  make  you  write  to  me  when  I 
was  a  boy  at  college  ? 

HELEN.    Yes. 

JACK.  And  you  were  a  thousand  miles  away — 
while  this  fellow — Hardmuth — was  just  at  my  el 
bow  half  the  time. 

HELEN.     It  can't  help  you  to  brood  over  it. 

JACK.  It  can  help  me  to  know  it,  and  make  what 
amend  I  can.  Will  you  go  with  me  while  I  put  this 
poor  devil  over  the  line  ? 

HELEN.  (Taking  VIOLA'S  fur  coat)  Yes,  I'll  go 
with  you. 

JACK.  Helen,  you  stood  by  your  boy  in  a  fight 
for  his  life. 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR.  in 

HELEN.    Didn't  you  ? 

JACK.  Will  you  stand  by  me  while  I  make  my 
fight? 

HELEN  (giving  her  hand).  You've  made  your 
fight,  Jack,  and  you've  won. 

(JACK  kisses  her  hand,  which  he  reverently  holds  in 
both  of  his.) 

CURTAIN. 


^ 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25m-6,'66(G3855s4)458 


N9 

PS3022 
Thomas,   A.  W5 

The  witching  1916 

hour. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


